The Limits of Empire in Ancient Afghanistan: Rule and Resistance in the Hindu Kush, Circa 600 BCE-600 CE 3447114533, 9783447114530

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Classica et Orientalia 24

CLeO

Richard E. Payne and Rhyne King (Eds.)

The Limits of Empire in Ancient Afghanistan Rule and Resistance in the Hindu Kush, circa 600 BCE–600 CE

Harrassowitz

© 2020, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-11453-0 - ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-39027-9

Classica et Orientalia Herausgegeben von Ann C. Gunter, Wouter F. M. Henkelman, Bruno Jacobs, Robert Rollinger, Kai Ruffing und Josef Wiesehöfer Band 24

2020 Harrassowitz Verlag . Wiesbaden

© 2020, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-11453-0 - ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-39027-9

The Limits of Empire in Ancient Afghanistan Rule and Resistance in the Hindu Kush, circa 600 BCE–600 CE Edited by Richard E. Payne and Rhyne King

2020 Harrassowitz Verlag . Wiesbaden

© 2020, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-11453-0 - ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-39027-9

Cover: Laurent de La Hyre (1606–ca. 1656), “Alexander and Roxana”. Oil on canvas. Painted in 1635. © Christie’s Images / Bridgeman Images. Support for this volume has been provided by the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago.

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Contents Richard E. Payne and Rhyne King The Limits of Empire in Ancient Afghanistan: An Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

VII

Thomas Barfield Afghan Political Ecologies: Templates Past and Present from the Eastern Iranian World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1

Pierre Briant Bactria in the Achaemenid Empire: The Achaemenid Central State in Bactria (again) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

21

Matthew P. Canepa ‘Afghanistan’ as a Cradle and Pivot of Empires: Reshaping Eastern Iran’s Topography of Power under the Achaemenids, Seleucids, Greco-Bactrians and Kushans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

45

Laurianne Martinez-Sève Greek Power in Hellenistic Bactria: Control and Resistance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

81

Robert Bracey The Limits of Kushan Power and the Limits of Evidence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

113

Christopher I. Beckwith Vihāras in the Kushan Empire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

157

Tasha Vorderstrasse The Limits of the Kushan Empire in the Tarim Basin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

169

Nikolaus Schindel When Did the Kushano-Sasanian Coinage Commence?. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

201

Nicholas Sims-Williams The Bactrian Documents as a Historical Source . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

231

Rhyne King Local Powerbrokers in Iranian and Post-Iranian Bactria (ca. 300–800 CE): Aristocrats, Dependents, and Imperial Regimes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

245

List of Credits. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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The Limits of Empire in Ancient Afghanistan: An Introduction Richard E. Payne & Rhyne King

In the 630s CE, a Chinese Buddhist monk traveling across the Hindu Kush, the famed Xuanzang, reported a mythical tale that captures the historical problem the present volume addresses. On a high peak in the eastern Hindu Kush, 100 kilometers to the northeast of Kapiśa, a Nāgarāja, or king of the supernatural snakes, dominated the region and sought to destroy its Buddhist monastery. To protect the monks, the Kushan king Kanishka intervened, bringing the military with which he had conquered northern India “to the foot of the Snowy Mountains” against the kingdom and its divine forces. The Nāgarāja admitted the superiority of the Kushan’s martial might. The tale, after all, was part of the elaborate Buddhist hagiography of Kanishka as a great convert king, on the mythologized model of Aśoka, and the divine forces at his disposal had to be stronger even than those of a supernatural sovereign. 1 But rather than conquer the Nāgarāja and incorporate his realm into an empire with a power-base only 100 kilometers to the south, Kanishka granted him political autonomy, in exchange for the mutual acknowledgment of their respective spheres of authority. Such an agreement was embodied in a monument: Kanishka reconstructed the stupa that the Nāgarāja had destroyed, and the preservation of this visible, palpable assertion of Kushan sovereignty served as a sign of the simultaneously collaborative and hierarchical relationship between imperial ruler and highland king. 2 The myth that Xuanzang recorded provides rare insight into the local political imaginaries of the Hindu Kush, for his sources were the story-telling monks in the monasteries of Kapiśa. It is of interest less for its obviously ahistorical content than for its presumptions about the nature of the relationship between lowland-based imperial powers and the highlands. It is imagined in terms of accommodation rather than direct rule, agreement rather than demand; in terms of the unimaginably superior military power of an empire kept in check by its comparative immobility and inflexibility in highland landscapes; in terms of a sovereign power that preferred to speak through monuments 1 As Gérard Fussman argues, the majority of documented Buddhist constructions shows local elites and rulers in Kushan service, rather than the kings themselves, as the primary patrons: Fussman 2015: 153–202, 161, 164–165, 172–173. 2 Xuanzang 1906: 62–66. For Xuanzang as an author drawing on local myths and traditions while crafting a narrative to situate Buddhism within a Chinese imperial context, see Deeg 2012: 100–110.

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and other symbolic media rather than through its soldiers. Once installed in the so-called Snowy Mountains, the stupa represented the Kushan sovereign and his military forces that had only to present themselves in the highlands on one occasion, without doing battle, to elicit the consent of the local regime of the Nāga. As Gérard Fussman observes, “south of the Hindu Kush mountains, most huge stūpas and monks’ residences we know are located on the slopes of the rocky hills overlooking the irrigated land, sometimes even at the top of the ridges.” 3 T he Buddhist monks of early 7th century Kapiśa knew a thing or two about imperial power. They possessed an institutional memory of at least four imperial regimes that had, to varying degrees, incorporated the region’s rich plains in networks of extraction and domination that crisscrossed the Hindu Kush. Their political common-sense perhaps provides a better starting point for the political history of ancient Afghanistan than prevailing models of state formation, nicely embodied in the “American cheese” metaphor of homogenous and continuous state structures Thomas Barfield elaborates in his contribution to the present volume. 4 The monks took the “Swiss cheese” model of heterogenous and discontinuous state structures entirely for granted. And they could attest to the success of regimes operating in accordance with its principles. From the integration of Bactria and Gandhara into the Achaemenid Empire in the late 6th century BCE until the dissolution of the caliphate in the 9th century CE, the Hindu Kush and its intermontane valleys were encompassed in imperial regimes, often overlapping and competing, each with their own distinct political cultures, institutional complexes, and territorial extents. What they all shared was the challenge of myriad Nāgarājas. If the trend over the past decade has been toward the comparative study of ancient empires unconnected to one another, especially Rome and China, we suggest that there is much to gain from examining how successive empires that often adopted the institutions of their predecessors sought to rule the same region, with its distinctive political ecology. 5 It has become a cliché—a comforting cliché, in the context of ongoing war—to speak of Afghanistan in ahistorical terms as a “graveyard of empires.” Another, still more common metaphor regards the region as a “crossroads,” an arena in which trans-Eurasian cultural and economic exchanges continuously intensified. Such tropes obscure the role of empires in shaping the societies, cultures, and economies of the Hindu Kush. They also obscure the agency of its populations. In a recent critique of historical writing on Afghanistan, from antiquity to the present, Robert Crews invites scholars of the region to regard and analyze its inhabitants, “not merely as the hapless victims of ‘foreign invasions’ or passive bystanders at some mythic ‘crossroads’ of civilization, but as actors who engaged in complicated ways with imperial societies and institutions.” 6 In focusing on the millennium-long history of empire-formation in Afghanistan as a process of negotiation 3 Fussmann (2015: 180–181) contrasting the sites of Buddhist monuments in the Kapiśa region with their more modest counterparts in Bactria. 4 See also Barfield 2010: 67–71. 5 See, for stimulating examples, Scheidel 2009 and Scheidel 2015. 6 Crews 2015: 15.

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The Limits of Empire in Ancient Afghanistan: An Introduction

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with local powerbrokers, The Limits of Empire works toward this goal. Archaeological accounts of premodern empire have come to underline the importance, in the absence of the technologies of the modern state, of co-opting local elites, communicating in the idioms of local cultures, and creating archipelagic rather than continuous territories. 7 Ancient regimes emerge from the theoretical literature on empires as more limited in their capacities of control and governance and more dependent on local populations with their own capacities to collaborate or resist than previously assumed. The themes and questions arising from such comparative archaeological and historical studies could provide the basis for a novel and productive conversation among scholars of ancient Afghanistan, for the problem of empire has only rarely been posed to the evidence from a region that continues to occupy a peripheral place in scholarship on pre-modern political systems. The most intense periods of Eurasian exchange corresponded with the centuries during which Afghanistan was, however imperfectly, integrated into trans-regional polities. 8 A shift in focus toward the efforts of imperial regimes to rule the region, and the resistance they encountered, can complement and enrich recent advances in the study of putatively non-political phenomena, such as the emergence of trans-regional mercantile and religious networks or the hybridity of Afghan material culture. To speak of “ancient Afghanistan” is to invite skepticism concerning the use of the name of the modern nation-state for a congeries of territories never envisioned as a political, territorial unity in antiquity. There are two reasons for thinking of Afghanistan as a space for ancient political history within the confines of the present volume, one practical, another analytical. The first is its focus on the crossing of the Hindu Kush, the spanning of its ranges to create archipelagic territorial structures comprised of highlands and discontiguous lowlands. The traditional, ancient categories of Bactria, Gandhara, and Arachosia—still preferable for the majority of historical, archaeological, and art-historical analyses—fail to foreground the political ecological challenges the Hindu Kush posed to state makers. Revisiting the ancient evidence with an eye toward Afghanistan, toward the development of regimes across the Hindu Kush, can prove revealing, even if the traditional geographical categories should retain their primacy. The second reason derives from the very etymology of Afghanistan as a highland space of recalcitrant resistance to premodern state projects. The linguist Johnny Cheung has demonstrated a geographical and political continuity of the term “Afghan” from its earliest documented usage in Bactrian, αβαγανο, to its more frequent usage in New Persian and Arabic medieval literatures to describe highlanders “(fiercely) independent from any central authority” and “living high in the mountains,” especially those branches of the southern Hindu Kush separating fertile lowland agricultural areas. 9 Xuanzang himself used the term politico-geographically to describe the highlands near the current border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, not far from Kanishka’s supposed monastic foundation, as the “country of the Avakan.” 10 7 8 9 10

Smith 2005; Smith 2011; Osborne 2013; or, in the context of Afghanistan, Wu 2016. Di Cosmo & Maas 2018. Cheung 2017: 32–33. Cheung 2017: 36–37.

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Cheung suggests the Bactrian derives from an older Iranian *apāka-āna-, “people from a distant land (behind Bactria).” 11 Without positing anything resembling ethnic unity or continuity, the idea of a “country of the Afghans” as territories of organized highlanders resistant to imperial rule usefully turns attention from the aspirations and claims of imperial inscriptions, administrative documents, and monuments toward the generally undocumented, in the current state of our knowledge, populations challenged, constrained, and negotiated them. Such a redefinition of Afghanistan invites engagement with the work of James Scott. His 2009 book, The Art of Not Being Governed, placed the relationship of highland and lowland political ecologies at the center of anthropological theories of politics. 12 The oft-quoted line that “civilizations can’t climb hills” captures the basic argument: not only did the technological limitations of states prevent them from incorporating highland regions into their fiscal systems, but the dynamic political strategies of highland populations also combined to contain and curtail sovereign aspirations. Often organized in acephalous groups resistant to state languages, religions, and other cultural forms of entanglement, they developed resilient political economies beyond the reach of lowland states whose capacities to extract resources and elicit obedience diminished exponentially as soon as they encountered verticality. 13 In a telling coincidence, Scott’s designation for the highland region of Southeast Asia, Zomia, derives from a Tibeto-Burman word for “region of remote peoples,” almost identical to Cheung’s proposed origin for the terms Afghan and Afghanistan. 14 The argument has attracted a great deal of criticism, not least for its obvious and deeply troubled binary opposition of highlanders and lowlanders. 15 In its broad outlines, however, the book presents a stimulating challenge to scholars of ancient Afghanistan, for the region witnessed the development of enduring imperial regimes in the first millennia BCE and CE across utterly ungovernable terrain. The case of the Hindu Kush provides an opportunity empirically to test the ability of agrarian regimes to assert themselves over highland regions, or to maintain various degrees of political unity across territories above and beyond their reach. 16 The conference held at the Franke Institute of the University of Chicago in October 2016 convened scholars across the disciplines of anthropology, history, archaeology, philology, and numismatics to discuss the problem of highland empire. The organizers tasked the participants with responding to a series of questions inspired by the work of Scott and the comparative literature on ancient empire formation, of which five emerged as of greatest salience and utility. First, what were the infrastructures through which imperial regimes sought to rule their highland and lowland territories? Second, how can we 11 12 13 14 15

Cheung 2017: 46. Scott 2009. For the potential of acephalous groups to achieve political complexity and stability, see Sneath 2007. Scott 2009: 14. See, e.g., Lieberman 2010, Jonsson 2010, and, of greatest utility for scholars of Afghanistan, Schneiderman 2010. 16 For an exemplary exercise in such a pursuit in ancient history, written without knowledge of Scott, see Balatti 2017.

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The Limits of Empire in Ancient Afghanistan: An Introduction

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characterize the various local elites and powerbrokers of the region on the basis of archaeological, documentary, and numismatic evidence and how did the experience of empire transform them as well as their subordinate populations? Third, how are the relations between local and imperial political cultures, structures, and traditions discernible in the surviving material and textual cultures? Fourth, can we identify resistance to imperial rule, whether archaeologically or textually, and, if so, how did resistant populations enlist powers of their own to limit the reach of empire? Fifth and finally, what role did religious institutions play in imperial rule and did these institutions reflect imperial or local cultures, or a hybrid combination of both? The consideration of such questions is only possible thanks to the work of the linguists, numismatists, archaeologists, and sigillographers who have discovered and/or deciphered novel material that have placed the study of ancient Afghanistan on an entirely new, far more extensive evidentiary footing over the past two decades. The revival of archaeology in Afghanistan since 2001 has yielded dazzling dividends in the most challenging of circumstances. 17 The French institute in Kabul, Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan, resumed fieldwork as early as 2002 and has tirelessly supported excavations, surveys, and preservation projects across the country, in admirable collaboration with Afghan scholars. 18 Most importantly, new excavations at Wardak, in the Kabul region, and above all at the highland mining site of Mes Aynak have charted the dynamism of Buddhist institutions not only under the Kushans, but also under the Sasanians and their Hun and Turk successors and well into the Islamic era. 19 The contemporary appearance of two groups of texts of enormous significance—one of Aramaic texts from the Achaemenid period and another of Bactrian and Arabic texts from the late Kushan through early Islamic periods—make possible, for the first time, the study of quotidian administrative practices and the social relations of local elite communities, thanks to the magisterial work of Geoffrey Khan, Shaul Shaked, and Nicholas Sims-Williams at interpreting and publishing these documents. 20 The indefatigable labor of numismatists and sigillographers—especially at the Austrian Academy of Sciences—has resulted in rigorous and robust publications of vast archives essential for the reconstruction of the political histories in a region that has yielded few surviving literary sources. 21 The contributions in The Limits of Empire address the questions posed on the basis of such novel, hard-won evidence. The complexities of an Achaemenid administration 17 See the material collected in Allchin/Ball/Hammond 2019: 260–459. 18 For the 2002 season, see Besenval/Bernard/Jarrige 2002, and for overviews of more recent projects, see the following: Bernard/Besenval/Marquis 2006; Marquis 2013; Bendezu-Sarmiento 2018. Italian and German institutions have also played leading roles: Filigenzi/Giunta/Micheli 2009. 19 Stančo 2016, provides a succinct overview of the fines ranging from coins and ceramics to monumental statuary. See also Allchin/Ball/Hammond 2019: 390–436. 20 Sims-Williams 2001–2012; Shaked 2004; Khan 2008; Naveh & Shaked 2012; Henkelman & Folmer 2016. 21 See, for some examples of important studies from a massive bibliography, the following: Callieri 1997; Lerner & Sims-Williams 2011; Vondrovec 2014; Jongeward & Cribb 2015; Schindel 2015; Bopearachchi 2017.

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incorporating Afghanistan into a trans-continental network emerge from two fragments recently uncovered in the National Museum of Afghanistan. 22 Coins critically interpreted and painstakingly sequenced provide the foundations for compelling and surprisingly comprehensive—if highly contested—political histories in regions ancient historiographical traditions generally neglected, from the Greco-Bactrian through the early Islamic period. A Bactrian archive spanning nearly the entire first millennium CE reveals the social and political relations of the local landowning class, the building blocks of preindustrial empire, in a highland valley of the Hindu Kush. There are other, equally striking examples of similar empirical advances deepening our analytical understanding of the ancient history of “Afghanistan” to be found within the following pages. These essays reflect not only the very different disciplines of the contributors, but also the very different states of the conversation within their respective sub-fields. Some scholars are concerned with empirical problems of no small urgency, such as the dating of coins and documents. Others present purely theoretical models demanding the refinement of the analytical vocabulary used to describe and model the imperial politics of the region in antiquity. Still others venture historical narratives of social and political change. The conference aimed to foster an inter-disciplinary conversation in the literal sense, one that takes place at the interface between disciplines, while reinforcing, not dismantling, their boundaries. Work on the regions of the Hindu Kush in antiquity will always depend on collaborative relationships between scholars in different disciplines, with often disparate interests and priorities, as no single individual can master all of the philological, archaeological, linguistic, and historical capacities required. The limits of the evidence demand such collaboration, for even with the recent advances the empirical foundations for the pre-Islamic history of Afghanistan remain weak: dozens of documents, in contrast with the tens or even hundreds of thousands known from, say, ancient Mesopotamia or the Roman world. Any meaningful history requires integration of textual and material cultures and thus scholars to depart from their areas of expertise and to depend on their colleagues. The volume models such collaboration, in all of its polyphony. The editors have presented contributors’ responses to the analytical agenda in, more or less, their original form. It was not practical to insist on coherence, given the different concerns and orientations of the disciplines and sub-fields involved. In the manner of a volume of conference proceedings, The Limits of Empire reflects the state of a scholarly conversation at a particular point in time while also setting an agenda for future work. It is fitting that the volume begins with an article outlining the utility of political-ecological approaches to the history of empires in highland Afghanistan. Thomas Barfield’s contribution provides a programmatic introduction that challenges scholars to consider the continuities in the Hindu Kush from the Achaemenids to the present, with a Braudelian insistence on geography as the starting point for study. He divides Afghanistan into four core regions, each around an urban center of enduring political centrality: Balkh in the North, Herat in the West, Kandahar in the South, and Kabul in the East. Barfield illustrates four 22 Fisher & Stolper 2015: 1–26, initially published the fragments and compared them with the Persepolis fortification archive. For the connections between Arachosia and Persepolis, see Henkelman 2017.

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characteristics discernible in each of these regions across millennia. First, each possessed a primate city politically dominating and economically integrating its hinterlands. 23 Second, each contained highland hinterlands that none of these cities could control directly, with verticality consistently keeping their political claims and economic demands in check. Rather, city-based states sought to control only agriculturally productive valleys and sought to assert only nominal suzerainty—of the kind embodied in the myth of Kanishka’s stupa—within trans-continental political orders, whether unified within a single imperial regime—under the Achaemenids, for example—or divided between multiple regimes—such as between the Iranians and the Huns or Turks. Finally, imperial regimes regarded local autonomy not as something to tolerate, but rather as something to cultivate. Nothing demonstrates the phenomena more clearly than the Bactrian documents of the first millennium CE, discussed in this volume by Nicholas Sims-Williams and Rhyne King, which document the remarkable stability of local elite communities across successive regimes. Pierre Briant provides a reassessment of the limits of empire in Achaemenid Bactria in light of newly published documents. He shares a concern with several other contributions, notably those of Robert Bracey and Tasha Vorderstrasse: how can we reconcile archaeological and textual sources that so often seem to contradict one another? Achaemenid Bactria presents the question with uncommon clarity. On the one hand, archaeological work attests to the continuity of material culture before and after the Achaemenid conquest, leading archaeologists to question the impact of the imperial regime on the region. On the other hand, documentary discoveries—the Aramaic, likely satrapal archive from Bactria and the Elamite fragments from Old Kandahar—demonstrate its incorporation into a trans-continental regime. 24 The recent excavation of an ex novo Achaemenid settlement at Kyzyltepe in Uzbekistan, moreover, appear to substantiate the documentary evidence for an intensive, even invasive imperial administrative presence in northern Bactria. 25 If the documents and the Kyzyltepe excavations point to a more robust form of Achaemenid rule in the region, Briant urges caution: the great bulk of the archaeological evidence, notably the all-important ceramics and settlement patterns attesting to local political-economic dynamics, indicate a high degree of continuity before and after the Achaemenids. Here the model of Barfield reveals its utility: the Achaemenid regime sought to control only particular, productive districts within an archipelagic imperial structure, and local elites continued to exploit their domains and subordinate populations, whether operating at the behest of the satrapal administration and within its jurisdiction or beyond the reach of its officers. The question of the comparative strength or weakness of imperial impacts recurs in the subsequent two contributions. Matthew Canepa traverses the regimes of the Achaemenids, Seleucids, Greco-Bactrians, and Kushans comparing their respective monumen23 Ancient Chinese writers, including Xuanzang, recognized the pattern of “capital cities, which bore the same names as the countries themselves”: Minoru 2015: 112. 24 For Bactrian evidence from Persepolis, see Henkelman 2018. 25 Wu 2018; Wu/Sverchkov/Boroffka 2017; Wu/Miller/Crabtree 2015.

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tal interventions in the landscapes of Afghanistan. Its regions formed the “cradle” of their trans-regional polities. They even possessed special ideological significance as the Airiianəm Vaējah of the Avesta, or the “Iranian Expanse.” The Achaemenid regime operated with a minimal, or “subtle” infrastructural footprint along the lines of the “diffuse urbanization” characteristic of its rule elsewhere in the Middle East, with comparatively small scale fortified sites such as Samarkand or Old Kandahar as the centers of satrapal administration. 26 The Seleucids, by contrast, intervened more vigorously in the landscape with novel urban foundations and the disruption of pre-existing settlement patterns. 27 No site reveals these changes more clearly than Ai Khanum—the focus of Laurianne Martinez-Sève’s essay—where a Seleucid foundation displaced an Achaemenid fortress. 28 Such Seleucid foundations became the basis for the architectural traditions of the Greco-Bactrians and Kushans, under whom Afghanistan connected, as a pivot, Central and South Asia. In this multicultural environment arose what Canepa calls “transcultural imperial idioms,” articulated at monumental complexes. Most importantly, Kushan dynastic sanctuaries combined uniform features, such as images of the king and the royal house, with local elements, re-articulating Kushan rule in distinct terms in different cultural milieux across the Hindu Kush. Martinez-Sève’s contribution offers a refreshing shift of focus: away from imperial regimes and their monumental interventions, toward their local subjects. She places an emphasis on the cultural limits of imperialism. Although the Aramaic archive attests to a degree of administrative continuity between the Achaemenid and Macedonian periods, the settlement of Alexander’s Greco-Macedonian veterans marked a major rupture with the more modest Achaemenid presence. Thousands of Greek soldiers confident in their cultural superiority and with a distinctive repertoire of practices and objects proceeded to dominate Bactria as a ruling ethno-class. 29 The Greek cultural products excavated at Ai Khanum—poetic inscriptions, statues, and Hellenistic ceramics, inter alia—so often celebrated by a previous generation of scholars, here emerge as instruments of domination. And Ai Khanum, in her view, is simply the best documented of numerous such Greek settlements. It is in the context of Greek ethnic, cultural domination that she reinterprets the assault on the Hellenistic city datable to 145 BCE. Typically attributed to outside invaders, the local population seems to have participated, with specific goals and interests. The destruction was limited to the most conspicuously Greek elements within the cityscape. The attackers targeted statues honoring local Greek elites as well as the Greek sanctuary and its cultic statue of a deity likely to have been Zeus. Bactrian subjects, the invisible population implied in archaeological evidence for continuities, appear to have rejected

26 On the model of diffuse urbanization, especially appropriate for the Achaemenid royal cities, see Gondet 2018. 27 On Seleucid space in Central Asia, see also Kosmin 2014: 59–76. 28 See also on Ai Khanoum, Martinez-Sève 2014. On the Hellenistic East more broadly, see Mairs 2011; Mairs 2014. 29 Martinez-Sève 2015.

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the architectural, monumental interventions of their Greek rulers. Hellenistic imperialism had found its limits. Robert Bracey addresses the challenge of Scott’s The Art of Not Being Governed for scholars of ancient Afghanistan most directly in his contribution on the limits of Kushan power. 30 Bracey surveys the evidence for the reach and structure of the Kushan state and draws attention to populations who could have escaped the control of the Kushans and checked their ambitions. The nature of the evidence places firm limits on any inquiry of the dynamics of Kushan imperialism: in the absence of either documentary or literary records, scholars have to work with meager inscriptions (only 25, mostly from the reigns of two kings), a handful of well-excavated sites, and numismatics, his own area of expertise, simultaneously in order to reconstruct an imperial regime that made the Hindu Kush its center, not a peripheral province. The textual and material evidence alike present a familiar difficulty. Evidence such as the fortification of the Balkh oasis and the dissemination of a uniform system of dating, the era of Kanishka, points to a robust state criss-crossing the highlands. 31 But in other domains, such as irrigation, and in other regions, the Kushan state is notable for its absence. Bracey insists, in keeping with Scott’s arguments, that state claims to power and sovereignty should not be taken at face value. Kushan epigraphic accounts of territorial conquest, for example, are more likely to have referred to raids on groups and regions beyond state control than the establishment of structures of rule, much as the mythical Kanishka of Xuanzang brought his military to renegotiate the relationship with the supernatural kingdom of the Nāgarāja. Reports of Kushan rule extending across the Pamirs into the Tarim Basin in what is now Xinjiang seems similarly to represent temporary interventions, rather than the establishment of imperial footholds, as Tasha Vorderstrasse demonstrates. Could the furthest islands of the Kushan archipelago have been located upward of a thousand kilometers across the highest Asian mountains? The Chinese historiographical tradition reports two separate Kushan interventions in the region: an unsuccessful invasion in the 1st century CE, and participation in the installation of a king on the throne of Kashgar in the second. Such episodes seem to mark political renegotiations in the context of ongoing economic, cultural, and religious exchanges. The Central Eurasian “Zomia” as a whole was beyond the capacity of a single state to encompass, despite the successes of regimes based in Afghanistan. As a “patchwork” polity recognizing its limits and with an archipelagic structure, the Kushan regime exemplifies Barfield’s model of a state centered on governing governable regions and containing the ungovernable. As the story of Kanishka and the Nāgarāja suggests, Buddhism played a crucial role in the elaboration and endurance of Kushan imperialism. Christopher Beckwith examines the relationship on the basis of a particular example, namely the vihāras, Buddhist monasteries, that proliferated under Kushan rule. With the establishment of normative Buddhism in the 1st and 2nd centuries CE came the spread of these monastic institutions across the empire and beyond into northern China. Beckwith highlights the distinguish30 On the Kushans’ imperial endeavor, see Staviskij 1986, Falk 2015. 31 On the controversial era of Kanishka, see now Cribb 2018.

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ing features of the vihāra, especially its plan resembling cloisters, which ancient and medieval sources considered to have been similar in form to fortresses. With an eye toward ascertaining their social and political functions, Beckwith reviews scholarly discussions of monumental wall projects, such as the Great Wall of China or the Gorgan Wall in the northeast of the Iranian Empire. Once regarded as primarily defensive installations designed to keep invaders at bay, the political function of monumental walls emerges as more complex and multicausal in recent literature. 32 More than defensive structures, they constitute offensive manifestations of the power of the state. Beckwith views vihāras through the same lens: the fortress-like vihāras, staffed with able-bodied men, embodied the power of Buddhism in the Kushan Empire in the manner of military infrastructure. Local populations were, moreover, required to support vihāras economically, suggestive of the role of the structures in the imperial political economy even in regions which the regime could not rule directly. Beckwith’s model provides an explanation for the role of Kanishka’s stupa: it did not only mark the limits of Kushan power and project its influence beyond the frontier, but it also involved the highland region in the imperial political economy. It represented the political and economic power of the regime quite as much as its religious interests, at a crucial site of dialogue between a lowland-based regime and its highland competitors and collaborators. The rise of the 3rd-century empire calling itself “Iranian,” ērānšahr in Middle Persian, reoriented Afghanistan toward the West and rendered its regions, at least temporarily, the easternmost islands of its territorial archipelago. 33 With familiarly meager sources for the conquest and integration of the East in the 3rd century, the most fundamental question of the history of an Iranian Afghanistan remains contested: the date of its inception. Nikolaus Schindel seeks to resolve the problem by reevaluating the disputed chronology of the so-called Kushano-Sasanian coinage. These coins were minted by an authority of “kings of the Kushans,” that is, client kings in the former Kushan lands who were subordinate to the Iranian kings of kings in Ctesiphon and perhaps were also have been members of the royal Sasanian house. The coinage is striking for its use of familiar Kushan themes alongside the introduction of some specifically Iranian symbols, as well as its minting in gold rather than Iranian silver. 34 The absolute chronology for these coins has proved difficult to ascertain, and, as Schindel notes, part of the difficulty arises from the equally confounding chronology of the Kushan Empire. Before providing his own method for dating the Kushano-Sasanian coinage, Schindel reviews the non-numismatic sources that 32 See, for example, Payne 2017: 193–199, building on the classic arguments of Lattimore 1940. Recent political theoretical work on walls as playing performative roles in the construction of sovereignty, especially in the context of the frailty of sovereign claims, merits the consideration of ancient historians and archaeologists: Brown 2010. 33 See the evidence presented in Allchin/Ball/Hammond 2019: 345–349. The Iranian claim to sovereignty in the East was expounded by Shapur I in his inscription on the Ka‘ba-ye Zartosht; see Huyse 1999. The Iranian relief at Rag-i Bibi effected this claim on the ground in Afghanistan: Grenet et al. 2007. Such claims to political power represented one means by which to enact this power (e.g. Richardson 2012). 34 Sinisi 2015.

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scholars have invoked for their chronology, such as Tabari and the inscription of Shapur I on the Kaʿba-ye Zartosht, and he ultimately concludes that none of the non-numismatic sources provide definitive information that can help date the Kushano-Sasanian coins. By comparing the Kushano-Sasanian coinage to the better understood Sasanian imperial coinage, Schindel reaches the conclusion that the first Kushano-Sasanian coinage was minted in the 270s. Schindel’s analysis, therefore, places this coinage about 50 years later than the communis opinio, and the coinage thus postdates the reigns of Ardashir I and Shapur I. What does this mean for the Iranian conquest of Afghanistan? Did the Iranians not conquer the Kushan Empire until after Shapur I, or could the novel coinage have resulted from an administrative transformation in the late 3rd century? Regardless of the date of the conquest, the Kushano-Sasanian coinage is important for revealing regional distinctiveness even under Iranian rule. The Iranian regime’s insistence on homogenizing coins—their language, symbols, and metallic content—met its limits in Afghanistan. The Bactrian documents similarly attest to the simultaneous distinction and integration of the region, to the endurance of local elite communities and to their subjection to an Iranian court in Balkh. Dating from the 4th through the 8th century CE, they derive from a highland valley of the sub-region of Rob, on the route over the mountains toward Bamiyan. They are composed in the Bactrian language, not in the regime’s preferred administrative language of Middle Persian, and record some social and political institutions undocumented elsewhere in the Iranian Empire. They also demonstrate the operation of the Iranian regime in dialogue with local elite communities. Nicholas Sims-Williams and Rhyne King both consider these documents, the most articulate testimonies to the operations of ancient imperialism in Afghanistan, from their respective philological and social historical perspectives. Sims-Williams, the original editor and translator of the corpus, addresses some fundamental problems in interpreting the documents as historical sources. 35 His concerns are threefold: the absolute date for the beginning of the “Bactrian Era,” to which the texts are dated; the geography of the toponyms mentioned in the documents; and the relative chronology of the undated texts, more abundant than the dated documents. From his analysis come two findings that have significant implications. The first concerns the Bactrian Era. On the basis of synchronicities, Sims-Williams argues that the beginning of the Bactrian Era should date between 219 and 223 CE and that the most logical date of these is the foundation of the Iranian Empire by Ardashir in 223/4. The second concerns the inconsistent or discontinuous nature of Iranian state power in the region: the regime appears to have administered Kadagstan in Eastern Bactria more intensively than in Western Bactria, a sub-region closer to both the center of the Empire and the presumed center of Iranian control in Bactria, Balkh. The documents thus provide a further example of a commonly recurring metaphor in the preceding lines: an imperial archipelago. Rhyne King’s contribution focuses on the question of how an imperial regime could operate in a niche so distant from regional and imperial power centers, Balkh and Ct35 For a more comprehensive discussion, see Sims-Williams & de Blois 2018, together with De la Vaissière 2018.

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esiphon respectively, without continuous, homologous administrative structures in the intervening spaces. He envisions empire as a hierarchical network of local elites and their trans-regional, imperial superiors, all of whom were bound together through the communicative exchange of letters and the political-economic exchange of gifts and persons. The Bactrian documents reveal not only political developments and the social, economic, and political institutions of a sub-region, but also the strategies through which local Bactrian elites mediated between imperial regimes, their aristocratic counterparts, and their dependents. They do so across several political ruptures: from the Iranian conquest through successive Hun, Turks, and early Islamic regimes. One aristocratic house endures each of these transitions, with its resources and position intact. Bactrian aristocratic communities, King argues, were only able to operate in the space between their dependent laborers and imperial regimes through the constant maintenance and renegotiation of their local networks. Through the circulation of letters, the giving of gifts, and the taking of hostages, Bactrian aristocrats sustained the inter-elite relations crucial for their success while at the same time competed for positions and resources. Imperial regimes presented these communities with opportunities as well as obligations, and local elites in highland Rob turned to courts at Balkh with the goal of advancing their own ambitions and of securing their local positions. The Bactrian documents point to participation, rather than coercion, as the key to establishing imperial regimes. In this perspective, the highland political ecology of Afghanistan merely puts in high relief the dynamics of local collaboration or co-optation that are a banal—and necessary—feature of empire. Bibliography Allchin, R., Ball, W. and Hammond, N. (eds.). 2019. The Archaeology of Afghanistan: From Earliest Times to the Timurid Period, revised and updated edition. Edinburgh. Balatti, S. 2017. Mountain Peoples in the Ancient Near East: The Case of the Zagros in the Millennium BCE. Wiesbaden. Barfield, T. 2010. Afghanistan: A Cultural and Political History. Princeton. Bendezu-Sarmiento, J. 2018. “La Bactriane: Les révélations de la Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan” Archéologia 562: 62–69. Bernard, P., Besenval, R. and Marquis, P. 2006. “Du ‘mirage bactrien’ aux réalités archéologiques: nouvelles fouilles de la Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan (DAFA) à Bactres (2004–2005)” Comptes rendu des séances de l’Acdémie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 150/2: 1175–1248. Besenval, R., Bernard, P. and Jarrige, J.-F. 2002. “Carnet de route en images d’un voyage sur les sites archéologiques de la Bactriane afghane (mai 2002)” Comptes rendu des séances de l’Acdémie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 146/4 : 1385–1428. Bopearachchi, O. 2017. “Alexandre le Grand et les portraits monétaires des souverains indo-grecs” In Bilder der Macht: Das griechische Porträt und seine Verwendung in der antiken Welt, edited by Boschung, D. and Queyrel, F., 255–268. Paderborn. Brown, W. 2010. Walled States, Waning Sovereignty. New York. Callieri, P. 1997. Seals and Sealings from the North-West of the Indian Subcontinent and Afghanistan (4th century BC–11th century AD). Naples.

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Cheung, J. 2017. “On the Origin of the Terms ‘Afghan’ & ‘Pashtun’ (Again)” In Studia Philologica Iranica: Gherardo Gnoli Memorial Volume, edited by Morano, E., Provasi, E. and Rossi, A.V., 31–50. Rome. Crews, R. 2015. Afghan Modern: The History of the Global Nation. Cambridge. Cribb, J. 2018. “Numismatic Evidence and the Date of Kanişka I” In Problems of Chronology in Gandhāran Art, edited by Renjiang, W. and Stewart, P., 7–34. Oxford. De la Vaissière, É. 2018. “L’ère kouchane des documents bactriens” Journal Asiatique 306  : 281–284. Deeg, M. 2012. “‘Show Me the Land Where the Buddha Dwelled’ – Xuanzang’s ‘Record of the Western Regions ’ (Xiyu ji): A Misunderstood Text?” China Report 48: 89–113. Di Cosmo, N. & Maas, M. (eds.). 2018. Empires and Exchanges in Eurasian Late Antiquity: Rome, China, Iran, and the Steppe, ca. 250–750. Cambridge. Falk, F. (ed.). 2015. Kushan Histories: Literary Sources and Selected Papers from a Symposium at Berlin, December 5 to 7, 2013. Bremen. Filigenzi, A., Giunta, R. and Micheli, R. (eds.). 2009. The IsIAO Italian Archaeological Mission in Afghanistan 1957–2007: Fifty Years of Research in the Heart of Eurasia. Rome. Fisher, M.T. and Stolper, M.W. 2015. “Achaemenid Elamite Administrative Tablets, 3: Fragments from Old Kandahar, Afghanistan” ARTA 2015.001. Fussman, G. 2015. “Kushan Power and the Expansion of Buddhism beyond the Soleiman Mountains” In Kushan Histories: Literary Sources and Selected Papers from a Symposium at Berlin, December 5 to 7, 2013, edited by Falk, H., 153–202. Bremen. Gondet, S. 2018. “Villes achéménides de Perse: Essai de définition” In L’Orient est son jardin: Hommage à Rémy Boucharlat, edited by in Gondet, S. and Haerinck, E., 185–210. Leuven. Grenet, F., Lee, J., Martinez, P. and Ory, F. 2007. “The Sasanian Relief at Rag-i Bibi (Northern Afghanistan)” In After Alexander: Central Asia before Islam, edited by Cribb, J. and Hermann, G., 243–267. Oxford. Henkelman, W. 2017. “Imperial Signature and Imperial Paradigm. Achaemenid administrative Structure and System across and beyond the Iranian Plateau” In Die Verwaltung im Achämenidenreich—Imperiale Muster und Strukturen/The Administration of the Achaemenid Empire. Tracing the Imperial signature (Classica et Orientalia 17), edited by Jacobs, B., Henkelman, W. and Stolper, M., 45–256. Wiesbaden. —. 2018. “Bactrians in Persepolis —Persians in Bactria” In A millennium of history: The Iron Age in Southern Central Asia (2nd and 1st Millennia BC), edited by Lhuillier, J. and Boroffka, N., 223–255. Berlin. Henkelman, W. and Folmer, M. 2016. “Your Tally Is Full! On Wooden Credit Records in and after the Achaemenid Empire” In Silver, Money and Credit: A Tribute to Robartus J. Van Der Spek on the Occasion of his 65th Birthday on 18th September 2014 , edited by Kleber, K. and Pirngruber, R., 129–226. Leiden. Huyse, P. 1999. Die dreispachige Inschrift Šābuhrs, vol. 1: An der Ka’aba-I Zardušt (ŠKZ) (Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum). London. Jongeward, D. & Cribb, J. 2015. Kushan, Kushano-Sasanian, and Kidarite Coins. New York. Jonsson, H. 2010. “Above and Beyond: Zomia and the Ethnographic Challenge of/for Regional History” History and Anthropology 21: 191–212. Khan, G. 2008. Arabic Documents from Early Islamic Khurasan. London.

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Kosmin, P.J. 2014. The Land of the Elephant Kings: Space, Territory, and Ideology in the Seleucid Empire. Cambridge. Lattimore, O. 1940. Inner Asian Frontiers of China. New York. Lerner, J. and Sims-Williams, N. 2011. Seals, Sealings, and Tokens from Bactria to Gandhāra (4th–8th Century CE). Vienna. Lieberman, V. 2010. “A Zone of Refuge in Southeast Asia? Reconceptualizing Interior Spaces” Journal of Global History 5: 333–346. Mairs, R. 2011. The Archaeology of the Hellenistic Far East: A Survey. Oxford. —. 2014. The Hellenistic Far East: Archaeology, Language, and Identity in Greek Central Asia. Oakland. Marquis, P. 2013. “Les activités récentes de la Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan (DAFA)” In L’archéologie française en Asie Centrale: Nouvelles recherches et enjeux socioculturels, edited by Bendezu-Sarmiento, J., 93–98. Paris. Martinez-Sève, L. 2014. “The Spatial Organization of Ai Khanoum, a Greek City in Afghanistan” American Journal of Archaeology 118: 267–283. —. 2015. “Ai Khanoum and Greek Domination in Central Asia” Electrum 22 (2015): 17–46. Minoru, I. 2015. “From Caojuzha to Ghazna/Ghaznīn: Early Medieval Chinese and Muslim Descriptions of Eastern Afghanistan” Journal of Asian History 49: 97–117. Naveh, J. and Shaked, S. 2012. Aramaic Documents from Ancient Bactria from the Khalili Collection. London. Osborne, J.F. 2013. “Sovereignty and Territoriality in the City-State: A Case Study from the Amuq Valley, Turkey” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 32: 774–790. Payne, R. 2017. “Territorializing Iran in Late Antiquity: Autocracy, Aristocracy, and the Infrastructure of Empire” In Ancient States and Infrastructural Power: Europe, Asia, and America, edited by Ando, C. and Richardson, S., 179–217. Philadelphia. Richardson, S. 2012. “Early Mesopotamia: The Presumptive State” Past & Present 215: 3–49. Scheidel, W. (ed.). 2009. Rome and China: Comparative Perspectives on Ancient World Empires. New York. —. (ed.) 2015. State Power in Ancient China and Rome. New York. Schindel, N. 2015. “Sasaniden, Kushan, Kushano-Sasaniden: Münzprägung, Propaganda und Identitäten zwischen Westiran und Ostiran” Haller Münzblätter 8. 137–167. Schneiderman, S. 2010. “Are the Central Himalayas in Zomia? Some Scholarly and Political Considerations across Time and Space” Journal of Global History 5: 289–312. Scott, J. 2009. The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia. New Haven. Shaked, S. 2004. Le satrape de Bactriane et son gouverneur : documents araméens du IVe siècle avant notre ère provenant de Bactriane. Paris. Sims-Williams, N. & de Blois, F. 2018. Studies in the Chronology of the Bactrian Documents from Northern Afghanistan. Vienna. —. 2001-2012. Bactrian Documents from Northern Afghanistan, 3 vols. London. Sinisi, F. 2015. “The Deities on the Kushano-Sasanians coins” Electrum 22: 201–225. Smith, A.T. 2011. “Archaeologies of Sovereignty” Annual Review of Anthropology 40: 415–432. Smith, M.L. 2005. “Networks, Territories, and the Cartography of Ancient States” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 95: 832–849.

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Sneath, D. 2007. The Headless State: Aristocratic Orders, Kinship Society, and Misrepresentations of Nomadic Inner Asia. New York. Stančo, L. (ed.). 2016. Afghanistan: Rescued Treasures of Buddhism. Prague. Staviskij, B.Ja. 1986. La Bactriane sous les Kushans : problèmes d’histoire et de culture, translated by Bernard, P., Burda, M., Grenet F. and Leriche, P., Paris Vondrovec, K. 2014. The Coinage of the Iranian Huns and Their Successors from Bactria to Gandhāra (4th–8th Century CE). Vienna. Wu, X. 2016. “Land of Unrule-ables: Bactria in the Achaemenid Period” In Fitful Histories and Unruly Publics: Rethinking Temporality and Community in Eurasian Archaeology, edited by Weber, K.O., Hite, E., Khatchadourian, L. and Smith, A.T., 258–287. Leiden. —. 2018. “Exploiting the Virgin Land: Kyzyltepa and the Effects of the Achaemenid Persian Empire on Its Central Asian Frontier” In A Millennium of History: The Iron Age in Southern Central Asia (2nd and 1st Millennia BC), edited by Lhuillier, J. and Boroffka, N., 189–214. Berlin. —., Miller, N.F. and Crabtree, P. 2015. “Agro-Pastoral Strategies and Food Production on the Achaemenid Frontier in Central Asia: A Case Study of Kyzyltepa in Southern Uzbekistan” Iran 53: 93–117. —., Sverchkov, L.M. and Boroffka, N. 2017. “The 2010–2011 Seasons of Excavations at Kyzyltepa (VIth–IVth Centuries BCE), Southern Uzbekistan” Iranica Antiqua 52: 283–362. Xuanzang 1906. Datang xiyu ji (Buddhist Records of the Western World, vol. I), translated by Beal, S. London.

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Afghan Political Ecologies: Templates Past and Present from the Eastern Iranian World Thomas Barfield

Landlocked Afghanistan (along with Central Asia to the north) is the historic heartland of the eastern Iranian world. Its territories have sometimes been centers of power in their own right but more often the targets of invaders who established a series of empires that incorporated parts or all of its territory. Yet even as new peoples, languages, and religions entered the region, continuities remained more profound than discontinuities. They constituted what Fernand Braudel 1 classically defined as elements of the longue durée, aspects of material life and social organization that have persisted for millennia. As Olaf Caroe, from his perch as a British political agent on the colonial frontier of India, observed, There is indeed a sense that in which all the uplands of Asia from the Tigris to the Indus is one country. The spirit of Persia has breathed over it, bringing an awareness of one background, one culture, one way of expression, a unity of spirit felt as far away as Peshawar and Quetta. 2 There are similar continuities in the economic structure and political organization that also appear to be as deeply rooted. They transcend what is normally taken as the great disjunction that ended the world of late antiquity with the Arab conquest of the Sasanian dynasty in 651 CE and began the region’s eventual conversion to Islam. They also continue through the next great political disjunction beginning in the 10th century CE. Before that time the centers of imperial power (Achaemenid, Hellenic Greek, Parthian, Sasanian, Islamic Caliphate) came out of the western Iranian world that ruled over the east. After that time, for the next 600 years, the most powerful dynasties and empires would be founded and ruled by Turko-Mongolian elites originally from Central Asia (Ghaznavid, Seljuk, Mongol Il-khan, Timurid) in which the east took control of the west. But no matter from which direction new rulers came, all sought to control the remarkably stable building blocks of cohesive regional states that existed before they arrived and would survive their departure. 1 Braudel 1972. 2 Caroe 1959: 56.

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Fig. 1: Afghanistan

Why and how these regions survived and maintained their identities and cohesiveness to this day may throw some light on late antiquity even when the historical material is drawn from later periods. We should start by examining these continuities with a focus on geography, which, unsurprisingly, is the most consistent baseline because it has changed the least over time. We will then tum to economic and political organization to argue that continuities also reflect two long lasting and unresolved tensions. The first is between regional centers and the people inhabiting their peripheries. The second is between imperial political centers and their provinces. Rulers have always found the incorporation of such distinct territories and peoples challenging. Local elites have historically proven almost impossible to displace and had to be accommodated or co-opted to maintain political stability. One reason for such strong local cohesion was that it emerged in relative isolation since regions were separated from each other by large tracts of unpopulated deserts, mountains, or steppes. While the examples here are drawn from the territory of modern Afghanistan as cases for comparison, they long predate its emergence as a nation state and are not restricted to it.

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Province

canal

springs

karez

Herat

302

45%

153

22%

226

33%

Balkh

250

72%

92

27%

3

1%

Kabul

177

31%

81

14%

321

55%

Kandahar

279

24%

258

22%

631

4%

Nimruz (Seistan)

193

91%

2

1%

18

8%

Fig. 2: Source of irrigation water in selected provinces3

Geographic Baselines and Core Regions Ease of travel in the contemporary world by air and motorized transport, plus the habit of using maps that fail to illustrate a place’s topography, have reduced our appreciation of just how strongly terrain influences local development. Viewing the physical map of Afghanistan (Fig. 1) makes it immediately apparent that a series of mountain chains dom3 Qureshi, Asad Sarwar. Water resources management in Afghanistan: The issues and options. Vol. 49. Iwmi, 2002. p 11. Source of map: https://vuawater.com/pages/AfghanLgMap.html.

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inate the region and that below them lie vast areas of semiarid steppes and deserts. There are only a few ways to cross these mountains, some more accessible that others, so that both trade and armies are channeled into these routes. Large expanses of desert have had a similar channeling impact because there are only a few easily practicable ways through them as well. More significantly, mountain snow pack in this arid world provides the melt water that makes irrigated agriculture (and thus dense populations) possible in the often far distant places below them. It is the watersheds created by the mountains that most often constitute the boundaries between different regions. Regional states historically attempted to seek control over the territories within them, except on the lower reaches of large rivers (such as the Helmand or Amu) that exploited self-contained deltas far removed from other population centers. Agriculture within these watersheds was primarily dependent on access to irrigation (Fig. 2). In mountainous regions, springs and small streams could be diverted for use by villages but the systems at lower elevations were more complex and required greater capital investment. Here a barrage or dam system diverted river water into main canals from where it was moved by gravity to a series of smaller channels and finally to the fields. Parts of the western and southern Afghanistan that lacked access to rivers used a more capital-intensive system of underground tunnels (qanat, karez). These tapped into subsurface water sources at higher elevations and moved them to lower ones. Some areas, particularly the loess foothills north of the Hindu Kush, supported productive rain fed grain production. While less dependable than irrigated fields, in years of normal or above average precipitation they could produce large grain surpluses. The integration of watersheds and agriculture created four distinct zones that were the foundations for long-lasting regional states and cities: Herat, Balkh, Kabul, and Kandahar. These core regions of today’s Afghanistan (Fig. 3) still maintain distinct identities and have great time depth. The historical persistence of these core regions is striking. They are first recognizable as such 2500 years ago when they were some of the most important eastern cities and ruling satrapies in the ancient Persian empire: Aria (Herat), Bactria (Balkh), Gandhara (Kabul-Peshawar), Arachosia (Kandahar), and Drangiana (Siestan). In later periods, even after suffering interludes of intense destruction, they all remerged in the same territories down to the present day (with the exception of Siestan). They now drive the politics of Afghanistan in the 21st century more powerfully than they did a century ago. Each is distinctive in its own way, so it is worth taking a closer look at individual cases before proceeding to a broader comparison. Herat Herat dominates the central Harirud River Valley (Fig. 4), a river than runs 1100 km before exhausting itself in the Karakum Desert of Turkmenistan. Its complex irrigation system diverts the river water into a series of large canals that surround the city itself and beyond that are villages that use karez to water their fields. At times of political stability and prosperity, Herat city was filled with people and its region home to many hundreds

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Afghan Political Ecologies

Fig. 3: The core regions of Afghanistan

Fig. 4: Herat

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of villages. After times of war when the city was depopulated and its infrastructure left unrepaired, many of the canals ceased to function and villages were abandoned. 4 Yet the city and region always revived even the worst of atrocities and returned to dominance on the same spot. The most cataclysmic of these events was the Mongol invasion of 1221 that reduced a thriving region of more than a million inhabitants to a few dozen people and saw the city leveled. Two hundred years later it was the thriving center of the Timurid empire whose rulers had transferred their capital from Samarkand to Herat. Declining from neglect again in the 19th and 20th centuries, Herat is now the second most populated province in Afghanistan with a combined 2 million people in the city and the thousand villages of the districts around it. 5 Herat thrived not just because of its access to irrigation waters from the Harirud but because of its strategic location on international trading routes. It connected Iran to Central Asia and onwards toward China via the northeast and to India via Kandahar the southeast. Both of these routes allowed caravans to bypass the high mountainous terrain of the Paropamisus and Hindu Kush. There was also a direct route to Kabul by going east to the headwaters of the Harirud River and then, via Bamiyan, down the tributaries of the Kabul River. However, because this route runs through so many narrow mountain valleys and over high passes, it has never really connected the two regions in any significant way. Instead its mountainous highlands created a buffer between them. Herat’s more significant frontiers have therefore always been to the north and south. Herat historically extended its control into the desert areas to its south to a border along the Farah River where it ran into powers based in Siestan or Kandahar. Its northern frontier took in the Murghab watershed (in today’s Badghis Province). This was an area of rain fed agriculture, rich in seasonal pasturage, and often inhabited by nomadic peoples. It was also the most common invasion route to Herat itself because horse cavalry armies found it much easier to travel though it than the arid deserts that led to Herat from the south and east since they lacked both water and fodder for animals. Balkh Balkh was the primate city of Bactria, a region that historically encompassed the plains north of the Hindu Kush to the Amu River that later became known as Afghan Turkestan. Its core was the irrigated alluvial fan delta created the Balkab River (Fig. 5). Unlike Herat, which diverted water from its passing river, Balkh exploited all the water that entered its delta through a dozen major canals and none of it reached the Amu River to the north. This brought a large fertile area into production, making the region one of the richest in the Persian Empire in ancient times and always the most important place on the northern plains during later periods. While the channels used for irrigation shifted

4 Noelle-Karimi 2014. 5 For modern populations see http://www.citypopulation.de/Afghanistan.html.

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Fig. 5: Balkh

over time 6, they always had the capacity to support a dense population. Like Herat, Balkh suffered a period of destruction and abandonment caused by the Mongol invasion in the 12th century but returned to prominence under the Timurids in the fifteenth. Today it is again one of the most prosperous of Afghanistan’s provinces with a population of 1.3 million people. Balkh was a center of production as well as strategically located for overland trade. It had two routes to China: one north via the Zarafshan Valley and then onward across the steppe, the other due east to the Wakhan Corridor in the high Pamirs and down to Kashghar in Tarim Basin. It also linked the most westerly (and most accessible) north-south route through the Hindu Kush from Central Asia to India via the Balkhab River to Bamiyan and down to Kabul. Balkh’s southern frontier (below the peaks of the Hindu Kush) and its northern frontier (the Amu River) were relatively fixed. That high mountains set a limit is easy to understand, but a stable river boundary is more surprising. Existing from ancient times (first separating Sogdiana from Bactria), the Amu was a natural boundary because a desert wasteland separated it from the Balkh oasis and its south bank was largely uninhabited at that point. Balkh’s eastern and western frontiers expanded across all the northern plains when it was strong, dominating the adjacent river systems to the west (all well south of the Amu) up to the edge of the Murgab watershed. It also sought control of the Kunduz River drainage in the east, with its extensive series of marshes in its lower

6 Fouache et al. 2012.

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drainage fed by waters from the eastern Hindu Kush, and the Kokcha River that led to the sole source of lapis lazuli in the mountains of Badakhshan. Of all the core regions Balkh had the largest number and most import sacred religious sites within its delta. These attracted pilgrims and religious institutions even as the religions they practiced changed over time. Balkh was reputed be the birthplace of Zoroaster, the state religion of the Achaemenids and Sasanians and later it became a center of Buddhism. Both shared huge temple complex at Nava Vihāra, “New Monastery”, in the suburbs of city. In 630 the Chinese monk Xuanzang visited it and noted that Balkh also had a hundred monasteries supporting 30,000 monks. 7 The shrines survived the Arab conquest but over time the whole region became Islamic. Many of Balkh’s older sacred places appear to have then been repurposed as Muslim shrines and the city became known for its excellent madrasas. 8 As early as the Seljuk period in the 11th century a tomb said to be that of Ali, the fourth caliph of Islam, became a well-endowed Sunni shrine that grew into a major pilgrimage site during the Timurid period and beyond. 9 Today that same shrine hosts an annual celebration of the Persian New Year (Nauruz) that attracts hundreds of thousands of people from all over Afghanistan, including a large number of Sufis and poets. Kabul-Peshawar The Kabul River is the only one in Afghanistan whose waters reach the ocean (after entering the Indus River below Peshawar). This creates a distinctive drainage system with two very different parts: a cold highland region lying above 1500 m in the northwest and a semi-tropical lowland region below 500 m in the southeast. Although the two areas are separated from one another by more than 300 km of mountainous terrain, the region has always been defined by a set of two linked cities at the opposite ends of its drainage. Today it is Kabul in Afghanistan (1800 m elevation) that dominates the high watershed of the river south of the Hindu Kush and Peshawar in Pakistan (350 m elevation) that is its lowland urban center (Fig. 6). But the highland and lowland central places here, unlike the locations of Herat and Balkh, have changed over time. For most of the region’s history, it was Kapisa (Bagram), 50 km north of Kabul, that was the highland center. The lowland capital also moved periodically as far east as Taxila during the Kushan period, 120 km from today’s Peshawar. Rulers would move their governments to the highlands in the summer and back to the warmer lowlands in the winter, a pattern employed by the Mughals and later Afghan rulers until the connection was severed by the British conquest of what they called the Northwest Frontier in the 19th century. There was considerable economic and political sense to link such complementary regions, a pattern seen commonly in the Andes of South America where it has been de7 Beal 1884: 646. 8 Azad 2013. 9 McChesney 1991.

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Fig. 6: Kabul-Peshawar

scribed as a “vertical archipelago” in which a single state exploited a variety of different ecological zones created by rapid altitude changes. 10 However, the persistence of the dyad here was also strategic because it was the Khyber Pass that linked the two. For more than 2500 years that pass has been the main gateway for invasions of the Indian subcontinent from the northwest and conversely the main line of defense against them from states based on the plains. Every conquering dynasty seeking to attack the Punjab has passed through it and powerful states in India have viewed the control of Kabul or Bagram as necessary to their defense. Some have been in both positions: Babur founded the Mughal dynasty in Kabul and used it as spring board to conquer India in the early 16th century; his successors held on to it to keep rival Iranian and Central Asian powers at bay for the next 250 years. (Afghanistan still makes irredentist claims on Peshawar today, two centuries after the old link was broken and has never ratified the existing border with Pakistan.) But the northern link over the Hindu Kush was equally as significant. The historian Arnold Toynbee saw it as the nodal point that linked India, China, Central Asia and the Middle East, famously stating, “Plant yourself not in Europe but in Iraq and it will become evident that half the roads of the Old World lead to Aleppo, and half to Bagram”. 11

10 Murra 1968. 11 Toynbee 1961: 1.

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Fig. 7: Kandahar

Qandahar, Siestan The rivers flowing south out if the Hindu Kush are all ultimately tributaries of the Helmand, a river that drains about 40% of Afghanistan’s land area over its 1300 km length. Kandahar, its most important city, dominates Afghanistan’s southern mountain slopes and foothills at an elevation of 1000 m (Fig. 7). It is watered by the Arghandab River that runs 560 km before it joins with the Helmand to flow into the Seistan basin that lies at around 500 m in elevation. In the northeastern regions around Kandahar, settlements are scattered across the landscape because so many of region’s irrigation systems relied on underground karez rather than river derived canals. To the southwest settlement was historically restricted to the banks of the Helmand where the river divided the stony desert to its west from the sandy one to its east. Their names, Dasht-i-Margo (Desert of Death) and Registan (Land of Sand), make clear that these have always been largely uninhabited (Fig. 7). As the Helmand enters the Siestan basin, the river dissipates in series of landlocked marshes and lakes. The modern city of Kandahar, established in the mid-18th century, lies a little west of the site of the old city that dates back to the Persian Empire. Its major importance has always been as a trading center linking routes from Herat with India via the Bolan Pass in Baluchistan. Babur, the founder of the Mughal dynasty, ranked it just behind Kabul as one of the two key nodes for trade with India. 12 Despite this asset, the city never attracted 12 Babur 2002: 153.

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any imperial patronage that would have left it with the impressive monuments and great centers of culture that were so praised in Herat and Balkh. For example, the Ghaznavid Dynasty (977–1186) largely bypassed Kandahar and lavished its attention on Ghazni to its northeast and Bost in the Helmand Valley to its southwest. Kandahar did become the founding capital of the Ahmad Shah’s Durrani Empire in 1747, but it was immediately abandoned by his son who moved north to the dual capitals of Kabul-Peshawar in 1776. On the other hand, perhaps the lack of such magnificence spared the city from destruction by invaders. Unlike Balkh and Herat, it survived the Mongol conquest relatively unscathed. For much of its history, Kandahar had a southern rival in Siestan at the other end of the Helmand drainage with its major urban center in Zaranj. Often praised for its agricultural productivity, the region was particularly renowned as the location of the most important parts of the Shahnama, the Persian literary masterpiece that told the history of pre-Islamic Iranian world. Siestan continued to play an significant political role in the Sasanian and early Islamic period but always experienced difficulties in coping with flood damage to its infrastructure, forcing rulers there to relocate its cities a number of times. 13 However, after the Timurids from Herat destroyed three major dams in 1408, the region never recovered 14 and today “a large field of active barchan dunes overlies most of the agricultural plain on the Afghan side of the Helmand inland delta. This plain was once the most prosperous and densely populated tract in the delta region”. 15 We have thus left Seistan as a core area on our map, but it is one that is now extinct. The longue durée is not a guarantee of immorality although a couple of millennia was not a bad run. Core Regions and their Characteristics Regardless of what polities they were a part of, the core regions outlined above shared the following historical characteristics: 1. All had primate cities that dominated their regions politically and integrated them economically. 2. None ever completely controlled their hinterlands even when powerful. 3. All were invariably the building blocks within larger states founded and ruled by outsiders who came to accommodations with local elites. 4. All dealt with empires that viewed regional autonomy as a norm and saw no reason to eliminate it.

13 Rawlinson 1872. 14 Subtelny 2007: 126. 15 Whitney 2006: 2.

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Primate Cities and Regional Integration Historians tend to focus on the role and persistence of the core cities described above in terms of international trade or trans-regional politics, themes perhaps overrepresented in surviving sources. What is underrepresented is their importance as central places that provided markets and supplied services for a whole region that was itself organized in a hierarchical fashion to create an integrated network. Geographers following Christaller’s 16 study of southern Germany and Skinner’s 17 analysis of nesting market towns in southern China have found persistent patterns in the location of premodern cities and agrarian settlements that produced nested hexagons, each within a larger catchment linked to a bigger central place. This pattern is easy to see in flat areas with unirrigated agriculture, but not so much in Afghanistan. Here settlements generally followed the availability of irrigation water and usable terrain. The travel or transport time needed to reach a place was often unrelated to absolute distance. If you had to cross a mountain or go around a desert, then knowing the distance to any place “as the crow flies” was only useful if you were a crow. While roads and motorized transport have altered this picture over the past 60 years and created a national economy where only regional ones had existed before, 18 old patterns persist and are useful templates to understand the past. The core regions described above all produced central places that replicated themselves over time, explaining why even their complete destruction in wars never permanently extinguished them. Their locations might move or their populations drop to low levels, but such powerful cities did not disappear unless the region itself (like Siestan) lost its capacity to support them. They always revived and thrived when given security and investment. The core cities as centers for regional economic and political integration are still strongly evident in contemporary Afghanistan. In my own ethnographic work in northern Afghanistan during the 1970s this hierarchy was always apparent. 19 Agricultural villages were the baseline settlements. While there was usually a local mill for grinding grain, these villages depended on towns with bazaars to meet their needs for manufactured goods and as places to sell their surplus crops or animals. They were also places to get metal tools, cloth, and imported tea, matches and kerosene. The size of the bazaar was a good indication of the size of the population it served but so was how often it opened. In towns, the majority of shops only opened (or did most of their business) on “bazaar days,” held on Sundays and Thursdays in this region, when hordes of people from the surrounding countryside would flock to the market. For nearby people coming to the bazaar was a regular event, but people from remote places in the mountains might come to such bazaars only a few times a year and be amazed that there were places that sold cooked food at any time of day. Cities distinguished themselves from such towns because their markets were active every day and the best were housed in sturdy covered bazaars. Cities also 16 17 18 19

Christaller 1966. Skinner 2001. Fry 1974. Barfield 1981.

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distinguished themselves by the larger variety of goods and services they offered for sale, places of worship that could accommodate thousands of people, and for their patronage of high culture. Administrative functions followed the same pattern, with no government presence in villages, its district offices in towns, and its provincial capitals in cities. A visit to remote districts today often finds the government center consisting only of a couple of buildings surrounded by a few shops, all of them usually closed, while the core cities they report to burst with economic activity and swelling populations. This pattern has changed a bit because today’s Afghanistan has now divided itself into 34 provinces, some of whose “capitals” are little more than bazaar towns. However, historically the Afghan state had only four provinces whose capitals (unsurprisingly) were our core cities: Herat for western Afghanistan, Balkh (Mazar-i-Sharif) for northern Afghanistan, Kandahar for southern Afghanistan, and Kabul for central and eastern Afghanistan. Despite the government’s creation of ever more provinces, Afghans still consider these whole regions (and not the new provinces) the country’s natural political units. Centers and Hinterlands In the late 14th century, the medieval Arab social historian ibn Khaldun 20 proposed a model that divided populations in arid North Africa and the Middle East into two main types of societies. The first was based on surplus agricultural production that sustained dense populations and created complex economies. Located in broad river valleys and irrigated plains, people here lived in cities and nucleated villages organized on the basis of residency rather than kinship. Their societies were highly stratified by class and had money economies with considerable division of labor. They were also markets for regional trade and international commerce as well as centers of learning and high culture. The second type consisted of communities where people engaged in subsistence agriculture or pastoralism with little division of labor and organized themselves along kinship lines under conditions of low population density. Peoples located in geographically marginal areas remained resistant to state penetration both because their territories were difficult to access and because they had few resources worth extracting. The problem for rulers here was that their territories had more margin than core. Scattered populations in deserts and mountain valleys were hard to integrate within a single state structure. It was costly and physically difficult to send armies into such places and they were too poor repay the cost of permanent occupation—by default they maintained considerable autonomy. Such regions constituted de facto buffers between the core regions rather than fixed boundaries. Cities and irrigated agricultural land, on the other hand, might occupy a comparative small amount of territory, only about 12% of mid 20th

20 Khaldun 1969.

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century Afghanistan for example, 21 but supplied the bulk of a region’s exploitable wealth. These territories and their populations were the only places worth governing. Rulers therefore sought direct control of these centers while largely ignoring the rest. To do this they employed a “Swiss cheese model” of the polity that did not automatically assume administrative uniformity across the landscape or direct state control of it. 22 The strategy was to control the cheese and ignore the holes. While states asserted nominal sovereignty over the people in marginal areas, they did not rule them directly or subject them to the same style of government they imposed on the populations inhabiting the irrigated plains and cities. Being “at the margins” did not necessarily require much absolute geographical distance. In mountainous areas, government control could dissipate remarkably quickly, with the lower valleys being under direct administration and the higher ones not, even when the distances between them were small—a pattern that James Scott 23 has explored intensively for highland southeast Asia. If potentially troublesome peoples at the margins did need to be coerced, rulers employed policies that included both carrots (alliances or subsidies) and sticks (punitive campaigns or trade embargoes) to keep them in line. One reason this policy worked was because while people at the margins were hard to control militarily, they were vulnerable to economic pressure. Using the Bedouin as an example, ibn Khaldun observed that “while (the Bedouins) need the cities for their necessities of life, the urban population needs (the Bedouins) for conveniences and luxuries … They must be active on the behalf of their interests and obey them whenever (the cities) ask and demand obedience from them”. 24 An economic blockade denying mountain villages access to salt, metal tools or cloth could be far more effective (and less expensive) than sending troops to places where they might well be defeated. One group of people peripheral to state control has yet to be mentioned: pastoral nomads. Although no longer of great significance today, in the past they constituted as much as 20% of the population. Pastoralists in Afghanistan moved up into the central mountains during the summers and returned down to the warmer lowlands for the winter. The nomads south of the Hindu Kush (today’s Pashtuns and Baluch) used relatively light weight black goat-haired tents and were the eastern end of a culturally similar pastoral continuum that extended westward across the Middle East and North Africa. They raised sheep and goats for subsistence, but also great numbers of camels that became the backbone of the caravan trade between the Indus Valley and Afghanistan. 25 Pastoral nomads north of the Hindu Kush came out of a Turko-Mongolian pastoral tradition that employed felt covered yurts as mobile dwellings. While black tents were not suitable for wintering in cold areas and easily blown down, yurts were designed to withstand both high winds and sub-zero temperatures. However, because yurts were heavy and less port21 22 23 24 25

Humlum 1959: 117. Barfield 2010: 67–71. Scott 2009. Khaldun 1969: 122. Ferdinand 2006.

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able than black tents, groups that emigrated permanently south to warmer regions abandoned them for lighter weight tents or huts. Today there are no yurts found south of the Hindu Kush. 26 Nomads using yurts (Uzbeks, Turkmen, Aimaq) also relied on sheep and goats for subsistence but tended to migrate shorter distances than nomads using black tents and raised more horses. Because the demand for horses was always high, they supplied a thriving market based in Balkh for sale of Central Asian horses as far as India. 27 Horse cavalry was so important during the pre-modern era that groups with riding traditions and extra horses were highly sought after by rulers of sedentary states as auxiliaries. On the other hand, such troops could turn on erstwhile patrons and attack them. The mobility nomads employed for annual migrations also gave them the ability to emigrate from one region to another relatively easily, so state relations with such people were not strictly territorial. Rulers focused on coming to agreements with tribal groups and their leaders that would apply regardless of where they happened to be at any particular time. There was an important exception to the indirect rule policy that emerged when states needed to control strategic passes or economic resources that were located in unpopulated regions or in difficult terrain. Passes through the Hindu Kush made places like Bamiyan Valley important strategically and so adjacent states that had the capacity to do so reached out to control it directly. Trade transiting through such a pass could also provide revenue to build up an urban area whose hinterland ordinarily would not support one, as Bamiyan’s massive Buddhist ruins attest. The Khyber Pass was even more important and so all states linked by it were determined to assert direct control there, if only along the narrow line of the pass itself. Both the Mughals and the British fought to preserve this control no matter how high the cost. Herat displayed a similar fixation with the underpopulated regions of the Murghab watershed since it was the major invasion route threatening the city. Mineral resources could also induce states to seek direct control over marginal areas, the revenue from which could support intense local development. Mes Aynak, south of Kabul, sits on Afghanistan’s largest copper deposit and from the 3rd to the 8th centuries CE produced enough wealth to support a forty-hectare monastery complex in an otherwise barren region. North of the Hindu Kush, lowland states attempted to profit from the famous lapis lazuli mines in mountainous Badakhshan by controlling the access routes to them, a factor that appears primary for the famous Greco-Bactrian site of Ai Khanum at the juncture of the Amu and Kokcha Rivers. Core Regions as the Lego Blocks of Empires All four core regions displayed a remarkable durability as frameworks for regional economic and political organization. What is less immediately apparent was their importance and persistence as building blocks for larger states and empires. For more than 2.5 millennia, they (and the other similar regions) maintained distinct identities within larger polities and 26 Szabo & Barfield 1991. 27 Khazen 2010.

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outlasted all of them. Empires and dynasties came and went, but each relied on the same box of Lego bricks that could be reordered in a variety of patterns. Just how the blocks fit into these larger polities varied depending on the power of the empires involved. In some periods, the four core regions discussed here were under the administration of a single unified state such as the Persian Empire during the 6th through 4th centuries BCE. In others, rival empires divided them up and they became, for example, the contested frontiers of Safavid Iran, Mughal India, and Uzbek Central Asia during the 16th through 18th centuries (Fig. 8). Their latest incarnation is now disguised by a peeling coat of nationalist history paint touting the everlasting virtues of Afghanistan, the newest state in which these regions now find themselves a part. History would suggest that it may not be the last. The core regions appear to have accepted their roles as subordinate units as a natural state of affairs. Although rebellions occurred, they were never with the expectation of bringing about independence. Even when practically autonomous, these regions linked themselves to a larger polity and often on advantageous terms. Balkh is a good example. Its entry into the Persian Empire in the late 6th century BCE appeared voluntary when Bactria, along with Margiana, became the empire’s Twelfth satrapy: Apparently, the annexation was not achieved through conquest but resulted from a personal union of the crowns. Indicative of this are the facts that the satrap was always a near kinsman of the great king and that the Achaemenid administrative system was not introduced. The local nobles played a big part and held all real power […]. Profits from the east-west trade as well as from the outstandingly prosperous local agriculture enabled the province to pay a substantial tribute (360 talents of silver per annum). 28 This was no short-term relationship. In 480 BCE, the Bactrian cavalry fought under the direction of the Great King when the Persians invaded Greece and they played the leading role at the Battle of Gaugamela in 331 BCE fighting Alexander under its satrap Bessus. Alexander made Balkh the headquarters for his Central Asian campaign after he defeated Bessus and incorporated a large number of Bactrians into his army. Under later outside rulers, their elites appear to have held on to power locally for the simple reason that conquerors were always too few in numbers to succeed without their cooperation. A striking example of this can be seen from the trove of documents in Bactrian from an area in the mountains southeast of Balkh. Stretching over four centuries, the local ruling families show great continuity as they complain about taxes and deal with a series of empires: Sasanians, Kushans, Kidarites, Hephthalites, Turks and later even Arabs. 29 During the 8th century, the Barmakids (originally a priestly Buddhist family from Balkh that ran the shrine there but had converted to Islam) became the ruling viziers in the Abbasid caliphate for 17 years. None of the people residing in these regions attempted to create their own imperial states. Balkh may have been rich and had substantial military forces at its disposal, but 28 Leriche 1988: 240. 29 Sims-Williams 2000.

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Fig. 8: The Greater Iranian world

there was never a “Balkh Empire.” The same was true for Herat, Kandahar, and Kabul. This may be contrasted with Fars or Parthia in Iran where local elites on more than one occasion turned a regional base into an imperial one. It was thus outsiders who created larger states as invaders and superimposed themselves on the local population. While local elites might be overshadowed in such a situation (and perhaps had to contend with the presence of a dynasty’s army), they benefited from imperial revenues that were partially invested in the local infrastructure. This was particularly true when dynasties picked a region as their imperial center. When the Timurids moved their capital from Samarkand to Herat in the 15th century, the city reached its zenith. In the 16th century Babur lay the foundation from his Mughal Empire in Kabul and Durrani Empire did the same in Kandahar in the 18th century. While Balkh received imperial patronage at many times, it was never chosen as any dynasty’s imperial capital. Even the invading Kushans who got their start there made Gandhara’s Bagram-Taxila capitals their center of power. Perhaps the Balkh elite had a too well-established reputation for autonomy for any new government’s taste—a situation not unknown in modern times as when the United States chose Washington DC as a capital over more established cities like New York or Philadelphia. Regional Autonomy as a Norm Empires established in the greater Iranian world faced organizational obstacles in establishing their rule over such vast areas. The cores of the regions worth ruling were not only separated by long distances but divided by large deserts and mountain ranges (Fig. 8). One could think of them as archipelagos separated by wastelands rather than seas. Like the

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regions, they too used a Swiss cheese model in which rulers focused on the control of the most productive places and attempted only indirect rule of people at the margins. However, imperial polities here were flexible in how they achieved control over the valuable core areas, usually seeking to co-opt local elites after establishing authority rather than attempting to eliminate them. 30 The imperial sovereign was a “King of Kings,” which naturally implied not only the existence of local sovereigns but their recognition as titled subordinates that made the system work. This flexible system allowed the empire to recognize a wide variety of religious and cultural traditions without feeling threatened by them. Nothing better displays its workings than the famous wall Achaemenid carvings at Persepolis of the tribute bearers coming to the capital dressed in their local costumes and bringing local goods to the center. While it was the Persian Empire that first created the template, succeeding empires faced the same structural problems and so employed its basic structure, modified to fit their own needs. This was in sharp contrast to imperial traditions to the east and west of them. Chinese dynasties, for example, always attempted (not always successfully) to implement direct rule and a single administration over all the peoples within their borders. Beyond those borders, like the Great Wall in the north, lay only “barbarians,” presumed to be hostile and treated as such because they refused to accept the Chinese emperor as the sole ruler of “all under heaven”. 31 The Romans similarly sought direct rule and to impose a single administrative system. Whenever possible, their preference was to completely destroy rivals such as Carthage or the Celtic tribes in Gaul and incorporate the defeated populations under terms dictated solely by Rome. This process took longer in the east where the Romans initially worked through the rulers of existing kingdoms who had transferred sovereignty to Rome. But the empire’s (successful) long term goal was to replace them with provinces run by their own Roman governors. 32 In China and Rome autonomy was a bug in the software—in greater Persia it was a feature. The later success of the Abbasid caliphate owes much to it taking over this older tradition of organizing diversity with an administration structure that had its roots in the Sasanian Empire it replaced. That the Abbasids owed their rise to non-Arab people in the eastern Iranian world where this system was so deeply embedded is an example of how deep continuities were expressed in new guises, repackaged but never replaced. Conclusions The models presented here are drawn from Afghan examples but I believe they apply to the eastern Iranian world as a whole including Sogdiana (later Bukhara and Samarkand) and Khoresmia (later Khiva). Unlike Afghanistan, however, the longue durée continuity of these regions was destroyed by the Soviet Union. It dismembered the old khanates of 30 Khatchadourian 2016. 31 Barfield 1989. 32 Luttwak 2016.

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Khiva, Bukhara and Kokand and replaced them with the ethnic republics of Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Qyrghizstan. These had no previous historical counterparts and Stalin’s policies of forcible collectivization and relocation of populations, combined with mechanized agriculture, transformed the region’s human geography. Indeed, one does not need lines on a map to distinguish today’s Afghanistan from the former Soviet republics when viewing a satellite image. The agricultural lands and settlements on the ex-Soviet side are composed of sharply defined rectangular plots measuring hundreds of hectares that arbitrarily impose themselves on the landscape. Farmlands and settlements on the Afghan side appear as small mosaic dots filling the landscape while adapting to it and following its natural contours. The images of Afghan side would be recognizable to their past rulers (if we could call them back from the dead), but not to those of Sogdiana or Khoresmia who would undoubtedly also wonder how the Aral Sea was made to disappear. Nothing in the generalizations described above should be taken as deterministic. Patterns replicated themselves because they were the most efficient solution sets to a series of constraints embedded in regional economic and social organizations that changed slowly, if at all, over the centuries. In this sense, the end of late antiquity with the fall of the Sasanians to the Arabs in the 7th century and the subsequent spread of Islam was probably less disjunctive than the Mongol devastation in the 13th century that crippled all the cities of Khorasan, Herat and Balkh in particular. Genghis Khan destroyed basic infrastructure and whole populations that took centuries to recover; the Arabs and later Turko Mongolian dynastic rulers just reorganized them. 33 When the Mongols did return to actually govern, the Il-khans in Tabriz renewed the strategic policy of working with local elites such as Herat’s Kart dynasty (1245–1370). Returning to Braudel’s argument that the constants of social and economic life in Mediterranean basin transcended changes in religion or language, a similar argument can be made for the continuities found in the eastern Iranian world and its peoples. Bibliography Azad, A. 2013. Sacred Landscape in Medieval Afghanistan: Revisiting the Faḍa’ il-I Balkh. Oxford. Babur. 2002. The Baburnama: Memoirs of Babur, Prince and Emperor. Translated by Thackston, W. M. New York. Barfield, T.J. 1981. The Central Asian Arabs of Afghanistan: Pastoral Nomadism in Transition. Austin. —. 1989. The Perilous Frontier: Nomadic Empires and China. Cambridge. —. 2002. “Turk, Persian and Arab: Changing Relationships between Tribes and State in Iran and along Its Frontiers” In Iran and the Surrounding World: Interactions in Culture and Cultural Politics, edited by Keddie, N., 61–88. Seattle. —. 2010. Afghanistan: A Cultural and Political History. Princeton, N.J. 33 Barfield 2002.

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Beal, S. 1884. Si-Yu-Ki. Buddhist Records of the Western World. Translated from the Chinese of Hiuen Tsiang (A. D. 629) by Samuel Beal. London. Braudel, Fernand. 1972. The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II. [1st U.S. ed.]. New York. Caroe, O. 1959. The Pathans, 550 B.C.-A.D. 1957. New York. Christaller, W. 1966. Central Places in Southern Germany. Translated by Baskin, C.W., Englewood Cliffs, N.J. Ferdinand, K. 2006. Afghan Nomads: Caravans, Conflicts and Trade in Afghanistan and British India 1800–1980. Copenhagen. Fouache, E., Besenval, R., Cosandey, C., Coussot, C., Ghilardi, M., Huot, S. and Lamothe, M. 2012. “Palaeochannels of the Balkh River (Northern Afghanistan) and Human Occupation since the Bronze Age Period.” Journal of Archaeological Science 39 (11): 3415–27. Fry, M.J. 1974. The Afghan Economy: Money, Finance, and the Critical Constraints to Economic Development. Leiden. Humlum, J. 1959. La Géographie de l’Afghanistan. Copenhagen. Ibn Khaldūn. 1969. The Muqaddimah : An Introduction to History. Edited by Dawood, N. J., Translated by Franz Rosenthal. Abridged ed. Princeton, N.J. Khatchadourian, L. 2016. Imperial Matter: Ancient Persia and the Archaeology of Empires. Oakland, California. Khazen, A. 2010. “The City of Balkh and the Central Eurasian Caravan Trade in the Early Nineteenth Century.” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East 30 (3): 463–472. Leriche, P. 1988. “Bactria.” Encyclopaedia Iranica, edited by E. Yarsheter. Online edition. Luttwak, E. 2016. The Grand Strategy of the Roman Empire: From the First Century CE to the Third. Revised and updated edition. Baltimore. McChesney, R. 1991. Waqf in Central Asia: Four Hundred Years in the History of a Muslim Shrine, 1480–1889. Princeton, N.J. Murra, J.V. 1968. “An Aymara Kingdom in 1567.” Ethnohistory 15 (2): 115–51. Noelle-Karimi, Ch. 2014. The Pearl in Its Midst: Herat and the Mapping of Khurasan (15th-19th Centuries). Wien. Qureshi, A. 2002. “Water Resources Management in Afghanistan: The Issues and Options.” IDEAS Working Paper Series from RePEc. Rawlinson, H.C. 1872. “Notes on Seistan.” Proceedings of the Royal Geographical Society of London 17 (2): 92–95. Scott, J.C. 2009. The Art of Not Being Governed : An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia. New Haven. Sims-Williams, N. 2000. Bactrian Documents from Northern Afghanistan. London. Skinner, G.W. 2001. Marketing and Social Structure in Rural China. Rev. ed. Ann Arbor, Mich. Subtelny, M. 2007. Timurids in Transition: Turko-Persian Politics and Acculturation in Medieval Iran. Leiden. Szabo, A. and Barfield, Th. 1991. Afghanistan: An Atlas of Indigenous Domestic Architecture. 1st ed. Austin. Toynbee, A. 1961. Between Oxus and Jumna. London. Whitney, J. 2006. Water, and Wind in the Lower Helmand Basin, Southern Afghanistan. Denver.

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Bactria* in the Achaemenid Empire: The Achaemenid Central State in Bactria (again)** Pierre Briant

Irrigation, Archaeology and the Imperial State: State of the Question (1984–2018) My title repeats the title of a presentation that I gave at a Franco-Soviet Archaeological Colloquium held at Dushanbe in 1982. 1 I gave the main outlines of a book to be about Central Asia viewed mainly throughout the course of the Achaemenid period. 2 The book itself was the product of a collaboration with the CNRS team led by Jean-Claude Gardin. 3 He had asked me to gather all the written documentation and, if possible, to confront it with the results of the surveys carried out by the French archaeologists in eastern Bactria. They had brought to light remarkable irrigation networks, whose origins reached back to the Bronze Age, including some developments and extensions dated to the Achaemenid period and others dated to the Hellenistic period and even later. 4 The question debated among us had to do with the identity of the authorities who gave the orders to plan and maintain these installations. Because of the continuity of local “Bactrian” ceramics, the archaeologists considered that the people who gave the orders were Bactrians, both before and after the Achaemenid conquest. For my part, I preferred to suppose that the satrapal

* **

1 2 3 4

I use the term ‘Bactria’ here in the broad sense of an administrative entity that also includes Sogdiana, following the interpretation that I proposed in 1984 (71–75). I offer my warmest thanks to several colleagues who gave me access to articles in press, including Wouter Henkelman, Johanna Lhuillier, Rachel Mairs, Philippe Marquis, Claude Rapin, and Wu Xin, and I am much obliged to Sebastian Stride for providing me a copy of his unpublished thesis. My thanks go also to Rémy Boucharlat for reading and commenting on my text, and to Matt Stolper for comments made while translating my text. It goes without saying that any errors are entirely my responsibility. Briant 1985. Briant 1984. URA no. 10: Le peuplement antique de la Bactriane orientale; cf. Briant 2017a: 3 no. 7. It will be remembered that according to the conventions of Soviet archaeology, the Achaemenid period is part of the “Antique” period that extends from the Achaemenids through the Kushans (5th–4th century BCE through 3rd/4th century CE).

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authorities of Bactria-Sogdiana could not have been entirely uninvolved in such regional installations, particularly for the sake of recruiting local technicians. I returned to this topic in the paper that I published in the acts of the Achaemenid Workshop in 1983, 5 where I discussed a theory that would sharply reduce the breadth and depth of the control that Achaemenid authorities exercised in the territories subject to their power: Such a view means implicitly denying the structural and functional connection that existed (as I see it), between military occupation and the control of space and tributary populations—in other words, reducing to their simplest expression the spatial realities of the Great King’s rule. And this is exactly the point of view of several ‘Bactrian’ archaeologists who think that the major works of water management undertaken in the Achaemenid period have nothing to do with Achaemenid initiative, as neither the techniques of construction (well attested prior to the Achaemenid period) nor the pottery shows any sign of Achaemenid intervention. In such presentations, the various countries concerned continued to live their own lives which were only very transiently troubled by the Persian conquest. If we take this further, we might even ask whether it is proper to speak of an empire at all when, in all the main sections of socio-cultural life, the dominant ethnic group never held the initiative. 6 In the same logical vein, I drew attention to the interpretative ambiguity of archaeological evidence: A canal that has been dug using typically Bactrian techniques could have been done on the initiative of the Achaemenid authority; a citadel built using Central Asian methods may well be fulfilling a protective function in Achaemenid governmental interests; similarly, a typical Bactrian institution such as the syllogos of hyparchs 7 may have been used by the Persian regime and serve the function of incorporating the Bactrian nobility into the Achaemenid military organization. 8 As Amélie Kuhrt also emphasized in her review of my work in 1984, this reflection on Bactria provides a significant impulse for reflection on the empire as a whole: It challenges the notion that continuity of local cultural forms and institutions is automatically proof of the weakness and shadowyness of Achaemenid control, and substitutes instead a far more positive and constructive view of the empire as a

5 6 7 8

Briant 1987. AchHist I 1987: 8–9 = Briant 2017a: 49–50. On the hyparchs, see below p. 30f. Briant 2017a: 51.

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multifaceted imperial structure, adapting and exploiting local systems for its own ends. 9 The debate has never ended. In 1988, 10 for example, in a chapter on Central Asia and Iran, H. P. Francfort emphasized continuities in Bactria before and after the Achaemenid conquest, in terms with which I could easily agree in principle: “The Achaemenids did not found Bactra, they did not invent irrigation, they did not create the civilization of Central Asia, but they coveted its riches when their time came”. 11 I myself returned to the main elements of the debate in my 1996 synthesis, 12 which elicited comments by J. C. Gardin, 13 then by H. P. Francfort and O. Lecomte. 14 The problem was also discussed by B. Lyonnet 15 and by J. C. Gardin, 16 in their respective volumes of the final publications of their surveys and excavations in Bactria. 17 Each of them simultaneously insisted on the difficulty of drawing political inferences from archaeological evidence: 18 La conquête achéménide […] a certainement entraîné des changements d’ordre politico-administratif, sur lesquels nos données sont muettes. 19 – Nous sommes face à l’une des limites majeures de l’archéologie. 20 – De l’extension d’un assemblage [céramique] P homogène à l’unité d’un État bactrien, couvrant les mêmes régions, l’inférence n’est guère défendable. 21 – Le matériel archéologique ne nous apprendra rien ni sur la forme ni sur l’intensité de la domination politique. 22 – L’archéologie ne donnera [pas d’information] sur la structure de la société (faute de matériel funéraire), sur la structure politique, ni des statistiques économiques sur l’exploitation et la mise en valeur par les Achéménides. 23 Even though the number of sites as well as the numbers of dated buildings and artifacts in Central Asia of the Achaemenid period (or the Achaemenid-Hellenistic period), continues to grow, and even though the Achaemenid impact is clearly marked in artistic crea 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Kuhrt 1987: 238. On this issue, see my comments in Briant 2017a: 3–6. Francfort 2005: 313, no. 1 remarks that his text was finished in 1982. Francfort 1988: 169. Briant 1996: 764–774 ; Briant 2002a: 743–754. Gardin 1997. Francfort & Lecomte 2002. See especially pp. 659–662, La question de l’ importance de la domination perse achéménide; on French surveys in eastern Bactria, see 637–640. Lyonnet 1997. Gardin 1998. See also the interesting remarks of Gentelle 2003: 173–231. “La question d’une possible ‘entité bactrienne’ de nature politique a été réexaminée en tenant compte des critiques de Pierre Briant” (Francfort-Lecomte 2002: 640). Gardin 1997: 269. Lyonnet 1997: 119. Gardin 1998: 160–162. Francfort-Lecomte 2002: 662. Francfort 2005: 342.

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tions (including long-term development), 24 the archaeologists still continue to emphasize “la faible quantité des données archéologiques propres à caractériser l’empire perse en Asie centrale, combinée à une faiblesse qualitative des fossiles directeurs, [si bien que] les données disponibles ne permettent guère de traiter la période achéménide comme un ensemble cohérent.” 25 It is for this reason that the archaeologists as a group emphasize (clearly for good reasons) the continuity of irrigation enterprises over the long term, from which they tend to draw the conclusion that the intervention of Achaemenid authorities was never required, above all when these same archaeologists insist on the fact that these works, staggered in time, never required the mass levy of a large work-force, which would have to have been brutally accomplished by the satrapal authorities, thought of as the sole possessors of “ la capacité à mobiliser des foules asservies”. 26 Not being an archaeologist myself, much less a ceramologist, I am not competent to comment anew on methods that I do not practice, even if I may discuss their particular results. For this reason, I ended my 1996 exposition with a prudent formulation that sought to leave the discussion open to new proposals. 27 I must say that reading recents works on the archaeology of Bactria-Sogdiana reveals that the discussion remains lively 28 and that the proposed solutions still diverge substantially. It is therefore useful to discuss their general tenor, in condensed form. Obviously, I do not claim to be exhaustive (inasmuch as I do not have access to studies in Russian). 29 I take as my basis here articles and reports that allow me to take stock of 24 See Wu 2005: 166–167 (“Manifestations of the Empire in architecture and architectural decoration”) and 2014, and especially Francfort 2006 and 2013. Likewise, Rapin 2016: 71: “Les principales trouvailles d’objets d’origine achéménide proviennent en revanche de sites datés de l’époque hellénistique”, including Aï-Khanoum (Rapin 2016, and Mairs forthcoming). See my remarks in an article already published in 1979: Briant 2017a: 447–49. On these grounds, the case of Bactria-Sogdiana should have merited inclusion in Persianism in Antiquity (R. Strootman & M. J. Versluys [ed.], Stuttgart, 2017), devoted to the reception of Achaemenid civilization (in all its diversity) in the Hellenistic, Roman and Sassanid periods. 25 I reproduce the wording of H.P. Francfort in his remarkable systematic inventory (2005: 313, 316–317). 26 Francfort-Lecomte 2002: 659–661. This argument is part of a more general debate about the ‘Wittfogelian’ connection postulated (or not) between the power of the central state and the realization of major hydraulic works—a debate to which I have added frequent interventions : see, e.g.: Briant 2007 with references, as well as the dossier “Politique et contrôle de l’eau dans le Moyen-Orient ancien”, which I edited in Annales HSS May–June 2002, and which includes the article by Francfort and Lecomte cited here; likewise Briant 2017a: 305–356. 27 Briant 1996: 774 = Briant 2002a: 754: “It is safe to say that the discussion is not over …”; likewise Briant 2009: 151. 28 See, e.g., Mairs 2014: 34–39. 29 An inventory of sites can be found in Vogelsang 1992: 245–303, whose upshot is unquestionable: “Archaeological evidence of the presence of Persian rulers or colonies in Eastern Iran is meagre” (p. 301). The author refers to the work of Gardin and his team in these terms, close to the position that I defended in 1984: “An apparent cultural autonomy of the subject lands cannot directly be used to suggest a relative political autonomy of the same lands” ; see also the critical reading of my responses to Gardin and his team, pp. 4–6.

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the dossiers that I, as a historian, have fed over the last 40 years. 30 The publication (2018) of the acts of a colloquium on this theme organized at Berlin by Johanna Lhuillier and Nicolaus Boroffka (A Millennium of History: the Iron Age in Southern Central Asia, 2nd and 1st Millennia BC), provides at least three articles that refer to the problems of concern here (by P. Marquis, C. Rapin and Wu Xin), and a fourth (by W. Henkelman) evokes the problems directly, while the co-organizer of the colloquium gives her views in other contributions. 31 The re-establishment of the Délégation Archéologique Française en Afghanistan (DAFA) in 2002 kicked off surveys and excavations, directed specifically by the late Roland Besenval and by Philippe Marquis in the oasis of Bactra and its surroundings, and by the DAFA teams. 32 These efforts made it possible to demonstrate the presence of an indisputable Achaemenid level at the Bala Hissar of Bactra. Another interesting discovery was made at the site of Cešme Šafâ, about 20 km south of Bactra on the route toward the Indus. Fortifications dated to the Achaemenid period were found there, as well as a vast platform interpreted by the archaeologists as support for a fire altar. 33 These discoveries and others made by Philippe Marquis 34 have evoked in optimistic fashion “a new understanding [of the Achaemenid period]”, since, according to the author, “really new data suggest a very high density of occupation in the Balkh oasis during the Achaemenid period.” Other sites of the Achaemenid period that served military functions have been identified, distinguished by circular structures that are identical from one site to the next. The views of Johanna Lhuillier 35 are more reserved. To be sure, she acknowledges the interest of the series of circular forts, probably built “pour protéger les frontières de la satrapie ou ses points-clé comme l’important réseau d’irrigation développé à cette époque”. On the other hand, when it comes to the development of Bactra proper, according to her, “il demeure difficile d’y voir la main directe des Grands rois”. More generally speaking, she emphasizes the scarcity of archaeological data and the uncertainties that afflict dating the pottery. 36 In the matter of religious practices, the identification of a fire altar at Cešme Šafâ remains hypothetical in the absence of an exhaustive study. Even the irrigation network noticed in Sogdiana near Koktepe may not be dated to the Achaemenids but to a later period. 37 She concludes with a perspective close to the one propounded by Gardin, Francfort and Lyonnet: “Some recent discoveries confirm the reality of the Achaemenid 30 See Briant 1982: 247–248; Briant 1982: 221 no. 287; Briant 1982; Briant 2017a: 446–449. 31 Lhuillier 2017; Lhuillier 2018. 32 See Besenval & Marquis 2007 and Besenval & Marquis 2008; likewise Bernard/Besenval/Marquis 2006. On recent excavations by the DAFA see also Bendezu-Sarmiento & Lorain 2016, with many maps and photographs. 33 Besenval & Marquis 2007: 1871–1872; Besenval & Marquis 2008: 982–987. 34 Marquis 2018. 35 Lhuillier 2017. 36 On this point, see Francfort 2005: 318–22. 37 The site of Koktepe, on the right bank of the Zerafshan (Polytimétos), has revealed a significant Achaemenid phase (Rapin 2007; Rapin 2017b), but uncertainty prevails over the dating of the first canals: see Rapin & Isamiddinov 2013: 119–120.

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power in Central Asia, but they are always limited findings. […] In the current state of research, the Persian presence itself is visible only through some fortresses likely hosting some military contingents and acting as administrative centres, located on some strategic point to control the territory”. 38 A conclusion like this strongly recalls the minimalist interpretation that R. Moorey proposed in 1980 at the end of his study of the funerary material from Deve Hüyük: 39 “As rulers, they [the Achaemenids] seem primarily to have lived in enclaves or in military strongholds, widely scattered, but linked by a highly efficient communication system and by the strongly centralized administration it served and fostered.” Among fortified centers of the Achaemenid period, J. Lhuillier does not overlook the site of Kyzyltepe, on the border of southern Uzbekistan and Tajikistan, in the valley of the Surkhan Darya, a tributary on the right bank of the Oxus. The Soviet excavations there stimulated W.J. Vogelsang, 40 on reading the available reports, to offer the following reflection: “ We are again confronted with the question whether this [Achaemenid] period of florescence should be directly linked to the spread of Persian influence in the region, from 540 BCE onwards, or whether this development was already advanced when the Persian appeared and was rooted in local developments”; he plainly preferred the second hypothesis. The situation is entirely different in the monumental, ambitious thesis that Sebastian Stride dedicated in 2005 to the “archaeological geography” of the Surkhan Darya region. 41 In addition to his work on the ground, the author exploited the entire literature of the Soviet era (including the “gray” literature). Without venturing into the details of the arguments, I must observe that in the part entitled “ Des sites archéologiques à l’histoire”, 42 the author takes the position in the debate whose main outlines I expounded. In his view, “la distribution des sites ne permet pas de penser qu’il existait une structure étatique avant la conquête achéménide  dans la province du Surkhan-Darya”. 43 And, declining to suppose “que l’unité de la céramique soit un argument suffisant pour arguer contre une présence achéménide forte”, 44 he infers that “la datation des sites renforce les arguments en faveur d’une intervention achéménide forte”. All these new elements “nous obligent à reconsidérer l’effet de la conquête achéménide. […] L’influence achéménide fut donc importante […] Une fois la conquête achevée, l’empire achéménide a mis en place une administration efficace qui a permis d’asseoir le contrôle sur la province, de construire un réseau de forteresses et de mettre en valeur de nouveaux territoires, sans pour autant indisposer les anciennes élites de la province. […] C’est pendant la période achéménide que 38 39 40 41 42 43

Lhuillier 2018. Cited and discussed in Briant 1987 = Briant 2017a: 49. Vogelsang 1992: 273. See already Stride 2001. Stride 2005, vol. 1: 265ff. Stride 2005, vol. 1: 205. On this point see the rebuttal of Gardin 1997 (responding to Briant 1984: 41–43). 44 Stride 2005, vol. 1: 298.

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commence à se mettre en place le système qui caractérisera la province du Surkhan Darya pendant l’Antiquité et qui connaîtra son apogée pendant la période kushane”. 45 As it happens, one of the sites presented by S. Stride, Kyzyltepe, in the Mirshade oasis, is being excavated exactly and exhaustively by Leonid Sverchkov and Wu Xin (work in progress). 46 They have been able to establish the several stages in the construction of the fortifications and urban space, founded ex novo at the beginning of the Achaemenid period, and abandoned at the beginning of the Hellenistic period. 47 Archaeobotanical analysis shows cultivation of cereals such as barley and wheat, made possible by artificial irrigation, including summer irrigation for the cultivation of millet. Specialists were also able to show that the population practiced husbandry, mostly of ovids and caprids, but also of bovids. 48 Combining these archaeological, archaeobotanical and archaeozoological results with information from written documents (in Aramaic 49), the authors draw the following inference, opposed to the interpretation constantly brought forward by the team of J.C. Gardin, which operated on the left bank of the Oxus: This intense cultivation regime is probably a consequence of the Achaemenid domination in Central Asia, which both required the intensification of agricultural production and expansive land use. In other words, the Achaemenid administration in Central Asia must have significantly stimulated the economic growth of the region, which led to the expansion of settlements. 50 Because of the existence of a series of foundations in the vicinity of Kyzyltepe, and drawing a (somewhat risky) comparison with the (still poorly known) Bactrian site of Češme Šafâ, but also with the organization of the territory around Persepolis (below p. 32f.), Wu Xin aligns herself explicitly with Sebastian Stride, and judges that “the center-satellite distribution of the settlements at Kyzyltepa and its environs constitutes one form of centralized management of the landscape. […] It probably reflects the administrative policy implanted by the Achaemenid kings on the physical landscape.” 51 Further proposing (in a convincing fashion) to see Kyzyltepe as a node of imperial communications (given the 45 Stride 2005, vol. 1: 297–301. 46 What follows is largely derived from the recent studies of Wu 2017: 269–283 and 2018. I note that L. Sverchkov also excavated another fortified site on the Surkhan Darya, beginning in 2003, at Kurganzol, which he dates to the year before the arrival of Alexander in the region, 328 BCE, because of the complete absence of Achaemenid ceramics (despite use of bricks of Achaemenid sizes), and because of dendrochonological indications (Sverchkov 2008; Swertschkov 2009; but see Lerner 2016: 132); on the ceramics see Martínez Ferreras et al. 2016. 47 On the partial destruction of Kyzyltepe at a date that does not necessarily correspond to the passage of Alexander through the region, see Rtveladze 2002: 188–189; likewise Rapin 2018: § 8.3, who also proposes (§ 8.1) to identify the site as Gazaba, where Alexander married Roxane; Rtveladze 2002: 183–187 (who prefers the reading Gabaza), locates the site of this event elsewhere. 48 Wu/Miller/Crabtree 2015. 49 See below p. 35f. 50 Wu, Miller, Crabtree 2015: 109. 51 Wu 2018: 209.

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presence of silos and reserves 52) Wu Xin considers that the regional organization thus reconstructed fits very well “with the framework that posits that the Achaemenid period was a time of major developments in irrigation and agricultural production”. 53 This last statement is startling, since it implies a cognitive and interpretative leap of very large scale, between a micro-regional analysis (Kyzyltepe and the Surkhan Darya) and the thesis of a determined application of a policy on the scale of the entire Achaemenid Empire, which would have led consciously to a general development of irrigation and agricultural production from Egypt to Central Asia. 54 In this view, Kyzyltpe would be a local illustration of a development that one could highlight in each of the satrapies of the Empire. By way of basis for her assertion, the author (no. 62) refers to the studies of P.W. English 55 on the qanāts of the Iranian plateau in modern and premodern times, which would tend to confirm the existence of a such a policy on an imperial scale. Unfortunately, I have reason to suppose that, far from reinforcing the interpretation, this reference rather weakens it. Following the views of the now somewhat dated work of P. English (not a historian, but an environmentalist), the author appears to ignore (or at least not to cite) the most recent developments on the question of qanāts. The articles by English, largely repeated between 1968 and 1998 (Wu Xin does not cite the former), are not without interest insofar as the author describes the techniques of construction a qanāt or the deleterious long-term socio-economic consequences of the contemporary substitution of electric pumps for the old technology. 56 But insofar as he touches on the origins of the technique and the stages of what he considered as unipolar diffusion (with far too much false certainty brought about by his readings, especially the works of Goblot), his propositions are no longer ten-

52 On this point (though without mentioning Kyzyltepe), see also Briant 2010: 178–80, expounded in connection with “L’approvisionnement de l’armée macédonienne” ( Briant 2018: 64–66, “Alexandre et les réserves satrapiques de Bactriane”), and Henkelman 2017: 82–97. 53 Wu 2018: 210. 54 I must acknowledge that I myself developed a vision of this sort in the 1970s and 1980s (see Briant 1982: 418–430, 475–489), above all to oppose a then dominant view of “Achaemenid decadence”, closely connected with the notion of “Asiatic stagnation”, but also in the context of dismantling the theories of Wittfogel (Briant 2002b; Briant 2007). I add that since then I have challenged the connection (which I myself formerly defended) between Achaemenid royal ideology and the development of agriculture (see Briant 2017a: 131–132, 271–85). I no longer believe (pace Briant 1982: 484–485 and Briant 1996: 427–428 = Briant 2002a: 425–426) in the heuristic value of Herodotus III.117; on this point I share the critiques of Francfort-Lecomte 2002: 660. See also below note 58 about the “agricultural policy of Darius” in the Kharga oasis. 55 English 1998. 56 “Modern technology threatens to replace the qanat with the more efficient deep wells, but the extent to which social and economic patterns have become enmeshed with this water-supply system will make the transition difficult” (1968: 180). – “The desire for short term benefits has prevailed: the long-term costs remain to be seen” (1998: 204).

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able today. 57 As regards the passage in Polybius (X.28), the text of Sargon’s Eighth Campaign, or above all the thesis of the diffusion of qanāt technology on an imperial scale, 58 and so the thesis of an imperial policy of development of irrigation and agriculture, the theses expounded by English contribute nothing to support those propounded by Wu Xin on Kyzyltepe as an imperial exemplar. The example does not lose interest because of that, on the contrary, but for the time being it is appropriate to view it only on the scale of the Surkhan Darya. I should add that a related thesis is presented in a study by Miller, Spengler and Frachetti 59 2016, used by Wu. Discussing the extension of millet cultivation in Central Asia and the necessary concomitant extension of irrigation, the authors consider that “the expansion of large-scale irrigation systems […] is associated with imperial systems of West Asia from the Neo-Assyrians to the Achaemenids. […] Those empires could have drawn millet from the established crop-repertoires of eastern or western Asia”. This is an inviting hypothesis, and the imperial institution of the paradise—a locale of experimentation – might be seen as consistent with it, yet I can hardly imagine a sort of Imperial Ministry of Agriculture which sent out directives from Persepolis on the types of cultivation to be promoted in this place or that.

57 One can find this, for example, in the following assertions: “Apparently originating in pre-Achaemenid Persia, tunnel-wells spread to Egypt, the Levant and Arabia in Achaemenid times (550– 331 BC)” (1968: 170; cf. 175). – “Qanat technology was known in Iran by the sixth century B. C., when Indo-Iranians began to settle as agriculturists, to worship one god (Ahura-Mazda) and to conquer the Old World (1998: 196). – “The Achaemenid rulers provided a major incentive for qanat construction […]. As a result, thousands of new settlements were established and others expanded (from Egypt to Yemen and Central Asia)” (1998: 189–190). Furthermore, according to the author, who positions himself implicitly but clearly in a Wittfogelian context, “slaves and captives were trained to construct qanats under the Achaemenid and Sassanian Kings” (1998: 191). 58 I refer to the studies gathered in Briant 2001, as well as Briant 2002b: 526–529 and especially Boucharlat 2015 and Boucharlat 2017; see also KCP (Briant 2017a): 16–17 for an up-to-date bibliography (with no. 58 on the recent articles of the late X. de Planhol) and 353–356. We should observe also that the construction of drainage galleries at the oasis of Ayn Manawir in the western desert of Egypt is not necessarily tied to the diffusion of the technology from Iran nor to an Achaemenid imperial policy in the matter, pace Colburn 2017a: 92–94, without referring to the full publication of the demotic documentation from the site (http://www.achemenet.com/en/tree/?/textual-sources/texts-by-languages-and-scripts/hieroglyphic-and-demotic-egyptian/ostraca-from-ain-manawir), nor to recent specialized studies: see particularly Agut & Moreno Garcia 2016: 638: “Il est possible que [cette technique] résulte, en réalité, d’une expérimentation conduite par la population égyptienne locale”, and mainly Boucharlat 2017: 292: “There is no reason to assume an origin from Iran. […] There is absolutely no ground for connecting this innovation with the Persian domination”; Boucharlat 2017 is cited in Colburn 2017b, who, more cautiously, admits there that the Iranian origin of the qanats “is now a subject of debate”; see also a few remarks in Briant 2017b: 830 (“Micro-histoire villageoise et histoire impériale”). For the same reasons I have some reservations about the policy of Darius “organizing the agriculture of the region [Kharga]”, as suggested by Kaper 2015: 144–145. 59 Miller/Spengler/Frachetti 2016.

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Specific Contributions of Written Sources Wu Xin favors such an interpretation because she relies on the connection of archaeological data with written sources, expecially the recently published Aramaic documents. 60 Before analyzing the contributions of this new documentation, let us reconsider two other corpora, one of which, the classical sources has long been known, and the other, the Elamite sources has scarcely been brought into the discussion until very recently. Arrian, Quintus Curtius and the Bactrian Hyparchs The importance of Greek and Latin narratives of the campaigns of Alexander requires no demonstration for historians of the Achaemenid Empire in the last phase of its history. They really constitute “another Achaemenid source”. 61 In spite of the many contradictions among them, they offer essential information on the transition between Darius III and Alexander, 62 including information on the political situation of Bactria in the time of Darius III. We need not review the topographic and chronological outlines of Alexander’s campaigns in the region, which have been fully re-examined by Edward Rtveladze in a 2002 study (translated into Italian in 2007) and by Claude Rapin in a series of works that I recommend to the reader. 63 From the point of view of the internal organization of the satrapy, one of the standing questions is that of the status (or statuses) the the people whom Arrian calls hyparchs, 64 and whom Alexander convened as an assembly (syllogos) at Zariaspa. 65 60 See expecially Wu 2017: 170, 179, 191 and Wu 2018: 208–9, as well as Wu/Miller/Crabtree 2016: 105–110. 61 Briant 1996: 713; Briant 2002a: 693. On this point, I concur entirely with the view expressed by Rapin in the introduction of his most recent article on the question (2018: 258): “The historical sources relating to late Achaemenid Central Asia are rather scarce and, except for recently discovered Aramaic parchments, our main knowledge is paradoxically represented by the Graeco-Roman texts relating to the conquest of Alexander the Great. In contrast to the other regions rapidly crossed during the conquest, the two long years that Alexander devoted to Sogdiana have provided substantial information that allows to discuss on a micro-scale the politico-administrative organization of the region at the eve of the Achaemenid collapse”. 62 For example, Briant 2009. 63 But see Lerner 2016, and his critics against Rapin 2013 and Sverchkov 2008–2009. According to Lerner, “the line of reasoning creates more problems than solutions. Rather than helping to clarify an already muddled historiographic tradition, the arguments […] suffer from a variety of methodological weaknesses” (p. 124). 64 See my discussion in Briant 1984: 81–88. 65 Rapin 2013; Rapin 2017a; Rapin 2018. Rapin (2018: 259) has shown that this toponym refers to Maracanda, not to Bactra. Regarding the syllogos, the comparison that I made (1984: 85–86) between two passages of Arrian (IV.15 and IV.7.3) must be reconsidered, for reasons that I have discussed elsewhere (see Briant 2017a: 476–479).

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They seem to have enjoyed a degree of autonomy in the territories assigned to them, from which they drew considerable resources that allowed some of them to hold out against Alexander for some time in theoretically invincible citadels (“Rocks”) , whose locations have been identified by C. Rapin. 66 It is noteworthy that Quintus Curtius uses the term “satrap” to identify two of them, Oxyarthes (VIII.4.21) and Sisimithres of Nautaca (VIII.2.19). C. Rapin 67 proposed that, in spite of the frequently indiscriminate use of terminology, 68 the terms refer in these cases to an institutional reality. Rapin 69 adopts without reservation the hypothesis of B. Jacobs, 70 that the Empire was constituted of “great satrapies” sudivided into “main satrapies” and then into “minor satrapies”, and so considers Bactria to be a “great satrapy” (under Bessos), and that Bactria and Sogdiana were two “main satrapies.” Under the general authority of Bessos, Spitamenes would be in charge of the “main satrapy ” of Sogdiana. 71 The people whom Arrian calls “hyparchs” would be in charge of “minor satrapies.” Far from operating outside the Empire, these hyparchs would thus be indispensable outposts of imperial power in the regions that they controlled in the name of the satrap, indeed basic levels of the political-administrative hierarchy. I hesitate to adopt such an interpretation, for it proceeds less from a precise analysis of the texts concerning the Bactrian hyparchs than from an uncritical application of a rigid theory envisioned by B. Jacobs on the imperial scale. Without accounting for different contexts, this hypothesis postulates that all the territories included in the boundaries of satrapy were under the direct authority of a satrap, whether ‘great,’ ‘main,’ or ‘minor’. These are circumstances that cannot be verified anywhere in the Empire, which was marked not only by external frontiers, but also by internal frontiers 72 (p. 36f.).

66 See especially Rapin 2017a with map p. 46 (an earlier version of which appears in Briant 2010: 18– 19), and Rapin 2018, 262, fig. 3 (Eastern part of late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Central Asia and the route of Alexander the Great in 329–327 BC.). 67 Rapin 2018: 277. 68 Even in Babylonian texts, the term aḫšadrapanu does not necessarily refer to what we would call a satrap (Briant 2017b: n. 37 with references). Similarly, the example of Zenis of Dardanos, who controlled a territory in western Asia Minor but who owed obedience to the satrap at Daskyleion, to whom he supplied tribute and troops. Xenophon (Hell. III.1.10) speaks of him as a person who acted as a satrap (satrapeuein). True, Xenophon compared the powers of Zenis in his territory with those of a satrap on the scale of the satrapy, but all the same, the use of the verbal form shows that he did not identify the one with the other: see Briant 1996: 661–662 = Briant 2002a: 642. 69 Rapin 2018. 70 Jacobs 1994; Jacobs 2011. 71 Rapin (2018: 76–77) sees confirmation of his hypothesis in the institutional situation revealed by the Aramaic documents, since Akhvamazda (installed at Bactra) held authority over towns in Sogdiana (see below p. 35f.). 72 Briant, forthcoming.

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From Persepolis to Kandahar and to Bactra … and to Kyzyltepe? In 1984, when I discussed the accidental character of what I called “the Achaemenid Bactrian documentary void”, I remarked 73 that “la découverte (encore inédite 74) d’une tablette élamite dans le niveau achéménide des fortifications de Kandahar confirme de quelle prudence il convient de faire preuve dans le maniement de l’argument a silentio”. I saw it as an indication of the existence of satrapal archives, likewise at Bactra, even though none had been discovered (below p. 35f.). 75 Since then, the document (in fact, two fragments perhaps coming from the same tablet) has been published in a more complete fashion, and it has recently been the topic of an exhaustive analysis by Matt Stolper, 76 where complete references to earlier studies and comments are to be found. 77 Observing uses of the Elamite formulas šutur daka (“balance on deposit”) and hi ŠÀ-ma (“including [the following items]”) and comparing the form of the tablet and composition of the text with documents known from Persepolis led Stolper to conclude that the tablet belongs to one of the categories labeled V and W by Hallock, “Journals” and “Accounts,” that is, registers and digests, compiled at the regional administrative center from source documents recording stocks and outlays at subregional, district centers. The broken state of the fragments does not allow certainty about the commodity that they recorded, 78 but it is noteworthy to find also a use of the term kurtaš (“workers”), so well known from Persepolis. One can confidently infer the existence of an archive at Kandahar, like one at Susa whose existence is implied by another Elamite tablet, 79 not to mention other satrapal archives identical or comparable to the one known from Daskyleion. Moreover, Kandahar and Arachosia were points of departure for official travelers for whom the administration provided authorizations that gave access to rations along the route. 80 These authorizations in turn gave rise to further archival records. 81 The Aramaic inscriptions on stone vessels found at Persepolis provide even more certainty about the existence of an archival center in Arachosia, surely less quantitatively important than the one at Persepolis, but nevertheless of decisive historical significance, since one can infer from it that administrative methods now well known at Persepolis were duplicated at Kandahar. 82

73 Briant 1984: 59. 74 I relied at that time on an unpublished report by S. Helms (The British excavations at Old Kandahar : preliminary report, Kabul-London, 1978), that I was able to consult in the library of the CNRS team directed by J. C. Gardin. 75 Likewise Wu Xin 2005: 124–125. 76 Fisher & Stolper 2015. 77 See also Henkelman 2017: 169–174. 78 Despite Stolper’s prudence, Henkelman (2017: 169) does not hesitate to propose the reading ‘barley.’ 79 Most recently Henkelman 2017: 113–129. 80 Henkelman 2017: 150–174. 81 See Briant 2012. 82 Fisher & Stolper 2015: § 6 ; Henkelman 2017: 102–109.

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These remarks can easily be extended to neighbouring Bactria. To be sure, not a single Elamite tablet nor even a fragment has been found there, neither at Bactra nor at Maracanda. Nevertheless, it is clear that the archives of Bactra held duplicates of the authorizations of official travels, 83 as at Kandahar or at other capitals of eastern Iran, Central Asia, and the Indus valley. 84 The frequency of exchanges between Bactra and Persepolis and the repeated attestations of the presence of Bactrian kurtaš in Fārs are perfectly well documented in the Persepolis texts, as Henkelman 85 has shown. It is difficult to argue with these observations. But what conclusions can we draw from them about the degree and depth to which Bactrian and Sogdianan territories and peoples were integrated into the “imperial module?” The question brings us back to Kyzyltepe in Sogdiana. In fact, the relationships of functional identity established by Stolper and further by Henkelman 86 between the Kandahar fragments and the Persepolis archive are a source of inspiration for Wu, who has always defended the thesis of close integration of these territories into the Empire, 87 and who has expounded her conviction still more clearly in her recent articles. 88 From her point of view, Kyzyltepe, surrounded by thirteen small satellite settlements, was at the heart of an “archeological landscape very similar to the landscape of the Achaemenid capital of Persepolis”, as it has been analyzed by W. Henkelman. 89 Henkelman, in turn, in his study of Bactria and Bactrians in the Persepolis documents, devotes a section to the question, under the title “From Persepolis to Kizyltepa”. 90 Relying particularly on inferences drawn from the Kandahar fragments, Henkelman considers that Kyzyltepe, as studied by Wu Xin (presented in the same colloquium), is a good illustration of the duplication of an institutional landscape of an imperial type, born of the Achaemenid conquest and occupation: “This analogy is indeed potent in that it strikingly evokes the systematic and logistic force that only the King of Kings and his kindred could wield”. 91 I must admit that I encounter some difficulty in adopting the combined conclusions of Wu Xin and Henkelman concerning Kyzyltepe. I have already given some of my objec83 See already my remarks in Briant 1984: 59, as well as the great use that Wu Xin (2005: 101–127) makes of Persepolis tablets of Category Q, concluding that “the large number of travel accounts from the PF archive concerning the eastern provinces would suggest that the East was well integrated into the imperial administrative network.” 84 See Henkelman & Stolper 2009 : 300–309. 85 Henkelman 2018: 226–235. 86 See Henkelman 2017: 173: “Achaemenid Arachosia had an institutional landscape and an administrative layout that a traveller from the heartland would not fail to recognize”; see also p. 148–149. 87 See especially Wu 2005, appropriately arguing against the prejudice created by the excessive weight given the classical sources on the western territories of the Empire (cf. Briant 1984: 64–68); hence the attention that she devoted in this first work to an analysis of the Persepolis documents of category Q. 88 See Wu 2018: 208: Archaeological landscape of Kyzyltepa and Persepolis.  89 Wu 2018. In Wu/Miller/Crabtree 2015, the author also thanks W. Henkelman (p. 110) for having shared his information on herds in the Persepolis documents. 90 Henkelman 2018: 243–245. 91 Henkelman 2018: 245.

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tions above. As to the unlimited extension of the “imperial paradigm,” I doubt that one can postulate, with Henkelman, 92 that the best way to demonstrate it is “to focus on satrapies beyond the Iranian plateau, regions that arguably had not been exposed to extensive institutional administration before the Achaemenids.” The term “arguably” introduced here in the argument will undoubtedly surprise the archaeologists. Far from considering these lands as “virgin territory” 93 on which the Persian conquerors would have been able to install their administrative system ex nihilo, these archaeologists, with undoubtedly good reasons, consider that at the time of Cyrus Bactria-Sogdiana was not awaiting some “Persian miracle” to be developed, and that these regions were already endowed at that time with “structures politiques développées bien avant celles qu’imposa l’administration achéménide”;  they emphasize “la permanence de ces structures sous l’autorité des satrapes, à l’échelle régionale, à en juger par la continuité des programmes d’irrigation constatée en Bactriane orientale tout au long de l’âge du Fer, jusqu’à l’époque hellénistique même”. 94 One can dispute the validity of some of the Gardin team’s interpretations, as I did in my 1984 book and in my 1996 synthesis, 95 but one cannot treat them as negligible to the point of not even referring to them. Generally speaking, in the various regions of the Empire, the Achaemenids found themselves faced with political, administrative and cultural traditions with which they had to come to terms, or which they had to manipulate, whether in Babylonia, Egypt or Lydia, not to mention Judea, Phoenicia or the Indus valley. In the absence of written pre-Achaemenid (Bactrian) documentation in Central Asia, archaeology alone does not allow us to determine the nature of political structures that existed before Cyrus. But this documentary situation does not entitle us to postulate that political structures did not exist. 96 Neither the Achaemenid conquest nor the Hellenistic colonization were carried out on virgin territory, even though both of these processes were able to bring about an extension of cultivated land. 97 Even if Kyzyltepe was a new creation dated to the beginnings of Achaemenid domination, this does not imply that it was planted at that time in an empty land without history. The Achaemenid conquerors did not treat the Bactrian past as a tabula rasa. Even where they created new centers, they certainly needed to rely on local elites and to call on local technicians.

92 Henkelman 2017: 150. 93 The title of Wu Xin’s article, “Exploitation of the Virgin Land,” is wholly characteristic of the views developed by the author. 94 Gardin 1997: 269. See also Francfort & Lecomte 2002: 663: “À partir du VIe siècle, l’intégration dans l’empire achéménide s’accompagna de quelques nouvelles exploitations de terroirs, mais selon des modes traditionnels” (ital. PB). 95 The article Gardin 1997 makes an effort to reconcile our points of view. 96 The vigor of the various Central Asian revolts againt Darius in 522–520 is a particularly eloquent mark of the rejection of imperial tutelage. 97 See Briant 1982: 314–318 = Briant 2017a: 446–449.

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The Aramaic Archives of Bactria Again in 1984, proceeding from a key observation by Benveniste 98 on the preservation of traditions of the Great King’s chancelleries in the Aramaic of one of the Aśoka bilingual inscriptions, I postulated that “les autorités achéménides de Bactriane maniaient les archives avec autant de constance et de persévérance que leurs collègues des régions babyloniennes et égéennes”. 99 It took almost thirty years before this intuition became a reality. 100 Aramaic documents written on leather and wood supposedly coming from Afghanistan arrived on the London antiquities market in 1999–2000. They were partially revealed to the scientific community by S. Shaked’s preliminary studies 101 before the collector, N. Khalili, authorized their publication. 102 Despite their fragmentary character, 103 the availability of this documentation marks a significant moment. For the first time, the historian could use documents from within the very offices of the satrap of Bactra and some of his subordinates, which made it further possible to study a concrete example of the transition from Achaemenid administration to the administration of Alexander. My purpose here is not go give a detailed analysis, but rather to see to what extent such documentation can foster the discussion at issue here, or else to what extent it can change the basis and orientation of the discussion. 104 In brief, if one sets aside the short inscriptions on wood, whose function, still disputed, is highly specific, 105 the corpus includes drafts of letters and lists of disbursals. The letters, often very fragmentary, are divided into two groups. One (A1–10) includes correspondence between Akhvamazda and Bagavant, dated c. 353–348; the former acts like someone we would consider to be a satrap, and he resides at Bactra. The latter, who holds the title ‘governor’ (peḥat), 106 resides at Khulm. These letters mostly deal with reproaches 98 Benveniste 1958. 99 Briant 1984: 59. 100 In 1996 (Briant 1996: 773 = Briant 2002a: 753), I judged that the hoped-for discovery of Bactrian archives was “statistically rather unlikely.” 101 Shaked 2003; Shaked 2003/2004. 102 Naveh & Shaked 2012. 103 Additional documents were bought by another collector, who refused to give publication rights to S. Shaked. For this reason, Shaked was not able to give us the text that he presented at the colloquium on the Persepolis tablets held at the Collège de France in 2006 (Persika 12, 2008: 21 no. 13). 104 Thanks to the generosity of S. Shaked, I could have advance access to the manuscript of ADAB, so I could present elsewhere (Briant 2009: 148–151) a synthetic view of this documentation and its relationships to the Persepolis tablets, and to emphasize its importance for consideration of the transition from Darius to Alexander: Briant 2010: 178–180 (with Briant 2017a: 22 no. 80) and Briant 2018: 64–66. 105 On the documents written on wood, see the very thorough study of Folmer & Henkelman 2016, summarized in Henkelman 2018: 245–247: “The Bactrian tallies imply, by default, interaction with third parties and, more concretely, a diffusion of the Achaemenid impact beyond the institutional household economies that had been set up in Bactria, Arachosia and elsewhere”. 106 On his functions, see Fried 2012, where, however, the connection with the inscription of Mnesimachos seems tenuous to me.

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from Akhvamazda, who has been beset by complaints and denunciations against Bagavant. The other letters (B1–10) are exchanged between persons whose names are known, but whose functions within the administrative hierarchy are not. 107 All these letters refer or allude to events or procedures that, from our point of view, are taken out of their narrative context. Still, one encounters passing references to taxes (ilku, mandattu), to royal camels, to messengers, and even to improvements of fortifications and moats around the towns of Nikhshapaya and Kish. Among the lists of distributions of rations (C1–10), including one dated in year 7 of Alexander (C4), two (C1, C4) are very well preserved and particularly interesting. 108 They provide first-hand information on commodities stored in royal magazines along official routes, and on modes of disbursing rations, comparable if not identical to those known from Persepolis. In this way, these documents begin to supply first-hand information on the system of official communications in the Empire’s interior, and on the use to which Alexander could put the magazines located along his routes of march. 109 All told, the relationships that can be established between the Aramaic corpus from Bactria, the Aramaic corpus from Egypt, 110 and the Elamite-Aramaic corpus from Persepolis make it possible to conclude with complete certainty that from one part of the Empire to another the Persians installed identical hierarchies and administrative procedures. The list of Perso-Iranian loanwords 111 is another testimony to that. 112 Archaeology and Written Sources: State of Things and Uncertainties In the introduction to the French publication of Shaul Shaked, I took it for granted that “le silence documentaire a vécu, ou, plus exactement, [que] l’historien ne sera plus désormais réduit à organiser une confrontation, nécessairement frustrante, entre les sources gréco-romaines et les données offertes par l’archéologie de terrain”. 113 Now, almost 15 years later, I take it that every one is persuaded that this is in fact “l’une des plus grandes découvertes documentaires de ces dernières années, dans le cadre du renouvellement en cours 107 According to Hyland 2013, the term krny in ADAB C1 reflects the title transcribed in Greek as karanos, and the person holding this title, Vishtaspa, would be the Hystaspes known from narratives of Alexander’s conquest. 108 On text C1, see Shaked 2003/2004. 109 Briant 2018: 64–66. 110 See Shaked 2004: 22–29 ; Naveh & Shaked 2012: 39–54; Reymond 2016; and especially Folmer 2017. 111 Naveh & Shaked 2012: 54–57. 112 One could also observe the large number of personal names of Perso-Iranian origin (Naveh & Shaked 2012: 57–60), but that should not be surprising, given that we are in a land of Iranian civilization. There are certainly some Persians, but also some persons of Bactrian origin (see the “Bactrian” names, Naveh & Shaked 2012: 58–59, likewise Tavernier 2017: 116–119). It is worth noting in passing that Iranian and Bactrian personal names remain notably present in the economic inscriptions of Hellenistic and later Aï-Khanoum: see Grenet 1982, Rougemont 2012: 212–213, as well as Schmitt 2017.  113 Shaked 2004: 6–7.

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de l’histoire de l’empire achéménide”. All formerly current theories about the peripheral character of Bactria-Sogdiana in the Empire have been rendered henceforth obsolete. It is plain that from Memphis to Bactria via Persepolis, the conquerors had installed identical military and civil administrations that used the same vocabulary, fulfilled the same functions and served the same aims: to occupy the territory, to administer it, and to exploit it for the greater profit of the Great King and his people. Nonetheless, “obviously, the texts do not answer all the questions”. 114 Specifically, how can we organize a dynamic dialog between the Aramaic documents and the archaeological data? Wu Xin drew connections between the lists of commodities and products known from the Aramaic documents and the cultivation and husbandry that archaeobotanical and archaeozoological investigation could identify at Kyzyltepe. 115 However well documented this observation may be, does it justify the conclusion that “the intense cultivation regime is probably a consequence of the Achaemenid domination in Central Asia”? 116 It is an inviting interpretation, understandably proposed, but I am not so sure that the confrontation of archaeological data and the Elamite-Aramaic written sources can support such certainty. In the same way I doubt the synchronism proposed by Wu 117 between the reconstruction of Kyzyltepe and the work carried out on the orders of Bagavant at the fortresses of Nikhshapaya 118 and Kish around 348–347 (ADAB A4), since the dating criteria for the work at Kyzyltepe 119 appear fragile. Thirty years ago I could state my profound conviction that “certains programmes [irrigation] de l’époque achéménide n’ont pu être réalisés sans l’initiative du satrape de Bactres”. 120 But today I must state that despite my hopes, 121 no trace of an “irrigation sector” figures in the Aramaic archives published until now. Akhvamazda took an interest in the construction of fortifications and moats around the towns under the supervision of Bagavant; but we do not see him making decisions about the management of space, except in the form of extractions, a large part of which undoubtedly were to be found in the storehouses and the herds of the administration: in the form of rations (ptt) handed out to official travellers and to soldiers of the garrisons, these products constitute one of the essential conditions for maintaining the system. To be sure, one could respond that setting up a network of fortresses implies that measures were taken for provisioning them over the long term. But as long as networks of canals cannot be associated chronologically with Achaemenid official buildings (not simply dated to “the Achaemenid period”) at particular sites, the proposition remains a working

114 115 116 117 118

Briant 2009: 151. Wu/Miller/Crabtree 2015: 105–109. Wu, Crabtree, Miller 2015: 109. Wu 2017: 279–281. According to Rapin, Nikhshapaya is to be identified with the Xenippa of the classical texts, on the Kashka Darya (see the maps of Rapin 2017a: 46, 77). 119 Wu 2017: 279. 120 Briant 1984: 103. 121 Briant 1984: 59; Briant 1996: 773–774 = Briant 2002a: 753.

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hypothesis. This is the current situation at Kyzyltepe, where irrigation was certainly necessary, but where, for the moment, “Achaemenid” canals have not come to light. 122 Another uncertainty of scale persists, the extent of the territories run directly by the imperial administration. Even if one postulates, as Wu Xin does, 123 that Kyzyltepe “most likely” was part of the district ruled by Bagavant, the problem is not solved definitively. In fact, even after the confrontation between the various corpora, a problem that remains untouched  is the articulation between the existing political cadres (known from Greco-Roman sources) and the imperial institutions newly established by the Persians and revealed by the Aramaic documents. Contrary to the interpretation proposed by C. Rapin on the model constructed by B. Jacobs (above, p. 31), I see no firm indication 124 in the texts that the Bactrian and Sogdianan hyparchs were integrated into the satrapal administrative hierarchy purely and simply as ‘minor satraps’. In an earlier study, 125 where the author maps the various Sogdianan hyparchs around the Hissar range and the Iron Gates, 126 C. Rapin wrote: 127 “The provinces were organized around the oases and their network of canals, each one controlled by local governor”. I agree with this formulation, on the condition that the “hyparchs” are not to be given the imperial title of “governors.” The same author 128 locates in the upper valley of the Surkhan Darya the territory of the hyparch Chorienes, who, according to Arrian (IV.21.10), controlled large reserves of food products (grain, wine, salted meat), an indication that he controlled a rich agricultural territory and extensive pastures. 129 Pending more exhaustive research in this region, one could pose the hypothesis that Kyzyltepe was situated in the territory assigned to Chorienes on the Surkhan Darya.

122 S. Stride (2005: I, 54–65) explains that many archaeological sites in the middle valley of the Surkhan Darya were destroyed in the modern period, “en particulier à la suite des grands projets soviétiques d’aménagement du territoire pour la monoculture du coton, [… si bien] qu’aujourd’hui seule une infime partie de l’activité humaine des différentes périodes subsiste dans le paysage, et que, dans la province du Surkhan Darya, à l’emplacement d’un site détruit il y a plusieurs dizaines d’années, il ne subsiste, au mieux, qu’une poignée de tessons et, lorsque le site est encore bien conservé, il est souvent occupé par un ancien cimetière laissé à l’abandon et complètement recouvert par la végétation”. 123 Wu 2017: 270. 124 Apart from the term ‘satrap’ which Quintus Curtius uses (in my opinion) without institutional reference (above, p. 31 and no. 68). In other words, it seems risky to me to rely on this indeterminate terminology to define the status of the hyparchs. (On this point, I depart from what I wrote in Briant 1984: 87–88). 125 Rapin 2013. 126 See Rapin 2013: 75, fig. 15. 127 Rapin 2013: 79. 128 Rapin 2016: 74–75; Rapin 2017: 97; Rapin 2018: 288–289. 129 Cf. Briant 1982: 242–244, with an interpretation of the socio-political consequences of Alexander’s victory for the status of the hyparchs. Likewise Briant 1984: 81–82.

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In fact, it is entirely possible that the hyparchs held a mixed status of the sort known throughout Achaemenid history, 130 of local dynasts who were in a relationship of subordination with respect to the satrap, but who nonetheless preserved broad autonomy within their own territory, which they managed as they saw fit, under condition of paying tribute and sending contingents of horsemen in response to satrapal requisitions. In other words, in Bactria as in other regions, the establishment of an administration on the Persepolitan model could perfectly well have coexisted with continuity of already existing local powers. All in all, we are compelled to say that new documentary sources, or new commentaries on already known documents, open promising avenues of interpretation, but they do not offer any sure answer to the question under review here. While awaiting new data and/or re-examination of available data, it is therefore best to leave open the question of the identity of those who took the initiative, throughout the time of Achaemenid domination, in bringing about the extension of irrigation networks in one or another region. Bibliography Agut, D. and Moreno-Garcia, J.-C. 2016. De Narmer à Dioclétien: 3150 av. J.C–284 ap. J.C. L’Égypte des pharaons. Paris. Bendezu-Sarmiento, J. (ed.). 2013. L’archéologie française en Asie centrale. Nouvelles recherches et enjeux socio-culturels. Paris. Bendezu-Sarmiento, J. and Lorain, T. 2016. The Archaeological Map of Afghanistan. To Build the Future and Preserve the Past. The 2014–2016 Work of Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan (DAFA). Kabul. Benveniste, E. 1958. “Les données iraniennes” Journal Asiatique 246: 36–48. Bernard, P. 2007. “La mission d’Alfred Foucher en Afghanistan” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres: 1797–1845. Bernard, P., Besenval, R. and Marquis, P. 2006. “Du ‘mirage bactrien’ aux réalités archéologiques: nouvelles fouilles de la Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan (DAFA) à Bactres (2004–2005)” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres: 1175–1248. Besenval, R. and Marquis, P. 2007. “Le rêve accompli d’Alfred Foucher à Bactres: nouvelles fouilles de la DAFA 2002–2007” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres: 1847–1874. — 2008. “Les travaux de la délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan (DAFA): résultats des campagnes de l’automne 2007-printemps 2008 en Bactriane et à Kaboul” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres: 973–995. Boucharlat, R. 2015. “Le falaj ou qanāt, une invention polycentrique et multipériode ” https:// archeorient.hypotheses.org/4692.

130 On this double status in relation to the Achaemenid Empire, see particularly Briant 1996: 787– 788, 1059 (Briant 2002a: 766–768, 1032). One could easily postulate further that the hyparchs’ power was transmitted by dynastic succession.

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—. 2017. “Qanāt and Falaj: Polycentric and Multi-period Innovations. Iran and the United Arab Emirates as Case-studies” In Ground Acqueducts Handbook, edited by Angelakis, A.N., Eslamian, E., Chiotis, E. and Waingart, H., 279–301. New York. Briant, P. 1982. Rois, tributs et paysans. Paris. —. 1984. L’Asie centrale et les royaumes proche-orientaux (c. VIIIè–IVe siècles av. notre ère). Paris. —. 1985. “La Bactriane dans l’empire achéménide. L’État central achéménide en Bactriane” In L’archéologie de la Bactriane ancienne (Actes du colloque franco-soviétique de Dushanbé, 17 octobre–3 novembre 1982; Éditions du Centre national de la recherche scientifique), 243–251, Paris. —. 1988. “Contingents est-iraniens et centrasiatiques dans les armées achéménides” In L’Asie Centrale et ses rapports avec les civilisations orientales, des origines à l’Âge du Fer (Mémoires de la Mission Archéologique française en Asie centrale, tome I), 173–176. Paris. —. 1996. Histoire de l’empire perse. De Cyrus à Alexandre. Paris. —. (Ed.) 2001. Irrigation et drainage dans l’Antiquité. Qanāts et canalisations souterraines en Iran, en Égypte et en Grèce (Persika 2). Paris. —. 2002a. From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire. Winona Lake, In. —. 2002b. “L’État, la terre et l’eau entre Nil et Syr-Darya. Remarques introductives” Annales Histoire Sciences Sociales 57/3: 517–529 [= “The State, the Earth and Water between Nile and Syr Darya”, in Briant 2017a: 345–356]. —. 2004. “Préface” à S. Shaked, Le satrape de Bactriane: 5–8. —. 2007. “Pierre Vidal-Naquet, Wittfogel et le mode de production asiatique”. https://www. academia.edu/9769615/_Pierre_Vidal-Naquet_Wittfogel_et_le_mode_de_production_ asiatique_. —. 2009. “The Empire of Darius III in Perspective” In Alexander the Great. A New History, edited by Heckel, W., Tritle, L.A., 141–170. Oxford = From Cyrus to Seleukos. Studies in Achaemenid and Hellenistic History, 143–180. Irvine (2018). —. 2010. Alexander the Great and his empire. Princeton & Oxford. —. 2012. “From the Indus to the Mediterranean: The Administrative Organization and Logistics of the Great roads of the Achaemenid Empire” In Highways, Byways and Road Systems in the Pre-modern World, edited by Alcock, S., Bodel, J. and Talbert, R.T., 185–201. Wiley-Blackwell = From Cyrus to Seleukos. Studies in Achaemenid and Hellenistic History, 227–244. Irvine (2018). —. 2017a. Kings, Countries and Peoples. Selected Studies on the Achaemenid Empire. Stuttgart. —. 2017b. “De Samarkand à Sardes via Persépolis dans les traces des Grands rois et d’Alexandre (Concluding remarks)” In Die Verwaltung im Achämenidenreich—Imperiale Muster und Strukturen/The Administration of the Achaemenid Empire. Tracing the Imperial signature, edited by Jacobs, B., Henkelman, W. and Stolper, M., 827–855. Wiesbaden. —. 2018. “L’approvisionnement de l’armée macédonienne : Alexandre le Grand et l’organisation logistique de l’empire achéménide” In L’Orient est son jardin. Mélanges en l’honneur de Rémy Boucharlat (Acta Iranica 58), edited by Gondet, S. and Haerinck, E., 55–70. Leiden. —. forthcoming. “From the Mediterranean to the Indus: controlling the Achaemenid imperial space and its limits” In Universality and its Limits: Spatial Dimensions of Eurasian Empires, edited by Biran, Pines, M.Y., Rüpke, J. and Cancik-Kirschbaum, E. Cambridge U.P. Colburn, H.P. 2017a. “Pioneers of the Western desert: the Kharga Oasis in the Achaemenid empire” In The Archaeology of Imperial Landscapes: A Comparative Study of Empires in

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‘Afghanistan’ as a Cradle and Pivot of Empires: Reshaping Eastern Iran’s Topography of Power under the Achaemenids, Seleucids, Greco-Bactrians and Kushans Matthew P. Canepa

Introduction With the British, Russian and American interventions establishing an interpretive leitmotif for studies of both premodern and contemporary periods, recent historiography of Afghanistan has often approached the region’s history through a paradigm of ceaseless rebellion or resistance, not to mention one whose identity and dynamics are circumscribed by the borders and geography of the modern nation state. These portrayals characterize Afghanistan as remote, and culturally and politically disconnected from the larger world unless forcibly and briefly integrated. We begin this chapter with the observation that, despite dramatic moments of resistance, historically the lands encompassed by, and contiguous to, the modern nation state played a pivotal role in the formation, maintenance and expansion of a long succession of premodern empires, either those with a center of gravity in Western or South Asia, or within the region itself. Shifting the focus to the arts of domination rather than resistance, this chapter analyzes both the spatial and conceptual armatures (including environmental, urban and architectural, discursive, and ritual traditions) that these empires deployed to integrate their holdings into new imperial systems. After examining the regions’ most ancient and persistent identities, either as integrated into sacred cosmologies or political formulations, the chapter focuses on the Achaemenid, Seleucid, Greco-Bactrian and Kushan empires, and the techniques by which they reshaped and controlled the lands that were understood in antiquity to play a special role in the formation of Iranian identity and religion. It then considers, what I provisionally term, the transcultural imperial idioms that emerged from this process of contesting, appropriating or subsuming the architecture of empire. These visual, architectural and ritual traditions owed their formation and development to specific imperial interventions but cannot be located in any single empire discretely, which was the primary utility as a tool of empires who sought to wrest control of regions from their rivals and project power over a lands that were inflected equally by Western, Central and South Asian influences.

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Fig. 1: Map of sites mentioned in this chapter significant to ancient Iranian empires (ca. 550 BCE–240 CE)

“Afghanistan” as a Cradle of Empires As the chapters in this volume amply illustrate, the regions encompassed by or contiguous to modern Afghanistan were both entangled in and the point of genesis of numerous empires throughout history. Although their mountainous topography was formidable, providing refuge for those evading state control, the fertile valleys and the routes that led through them were what truly mattered to project and maintain imperial control. 1 Moreover, at the crossroads of Western, Central and South Asia, these regions enjoyed immense strategic possibilities for extending and maintaining imperial reach into both the eastern Iranian plateau and Gangetic plain (Fig. 1). Geopolitical and economic conditions might never be such that present-day Afghanistan would find itself again as the homeland of a new imperial power, but even the history of the 20th and early 21st centuries illustrate its continuing strategic importance as a political, military and cultural pivot between the 1 Cf. Scott 2009: 178–219.

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Iranian plateau, Central and South Asia. In this regard, I find it necessary to voice discomfort with a scholarly trope often encountered in scholarly and popular treatments of Afghanistan’s ancient history, that is, the fixation on treating ancient Bactria like modern Afghanistan: a graveyard of empires, occupied yet resistant and ultimately a poisoned pill spelling doom for any empire that might take it. In antiquity these regions were conquered and successfully held for centuries, radically changing aspects of their culture. Just as importantly, they provided a formidable powerbase for imperial expansion into South Asia or the Iranian plateau. In the course of this study I emphasis the important role that these regions played as a ‘cradle of empires’ in the period between Alexander and Islam. The Seleucids held it and understood its importance, though ceding northern India and eventually Arachosia to the Mauryas. Anticipating later expansions into South Asia under Mahmud of Ghazni and the Mughals, the Greco-Bactrians and the Kushans ultimately created empires that straddled eastern Iran and northern India, with Bactria serving as the incubator of both invasions of South Asia. In the early centuries of Islam, the Oxus borderlands similarly took on their old role as a frontier and zone of imperial expansion or contestation with a new array of steppe powers. Under empires with the strategic interests and ability to do so, like the Achaemenids, the ancient lands extending from modern Afghanistan functioned as a lynchpin connecting Iran, Gangetic India and Central Asia. In addition to controlling the Oxus and its tributary river valleys, they served as the main point of connection between Western Asia to South Asia. In antiquity they lay at a crucial point controlling the main invasion routes into the Punjab and thence India. While travel between India and the Iranian plateau was possible from Arachosia or along the coast, the route through Bactria was preferred for moving massive armies, mobile courts, goods and communications back and forth between the Iranian plateau and northern India. The northern one ran through Taxila over the Indus ford at the present-day Attock bridge, branching to Ghazni and Kandahar or crossing the Hindu Kush to Bactra before connecting with northern routes across Iran or deeper into northwards into Margiana and Transoxiana. We see its importance illustrated in the growth of the many sites that make up Taxila (ancient Taksaśilā), the major ancient metropolis of the Punjab, which was joined by a smaller center at modern Charsada, northeast of Peshawar (ancient Pushkalāvatī). “Afghanistan” within Ancient Iranian Religious and Imperial Geographies Although later enveloped into a shifting succession of sacred and imperial geographies, the most ancient, persistent and influential identity of the region grew from the very core of Iranian religion: they were the lands of the Iranian people. At the center was the Airiiana Vaējah of the Avesta, the “Aryan” or “Iranian Expanse.” 2 The Iranian Expanse and constellating lands were the ancient homeland of the Iranian peoples and the locus of 2 With discussion of earlier debate: Grenet (2015a; 2005). Gnoli 1989: 53–61 (with earlier bibliography); Gnoli 2003c; Vogelsang 2000.

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Fig. 2: Map of the Iranian lands according to the Avesta

Iranian sacred historiography’s central moments of creation, epic struggle, and prophetic revelation. While further scholarly debate may refine the relative location of a few of these lands, the core of the ancient Iranian world was unquestionably centered on the Pamirs. They constituted, in total or in part, the ancient inhabited lands (Av. daŋ́ hu-, asah-; Old Pers. dahyu-) of Bactria (Av. Bāxdδī; Old Pers. Bāxtriš), Arachosia (Av. Harax vaitī; Old Pers. Harauvatiš), and Aria (Av. Haroīuua; Old Pers. Haraiva), as well as the eastern portions of Drangiana (Av., Haētumaṇt, Old Pers. Zranka), southern Sogdiana (Av. Gāuua, Suγda; Old Pers. Suguda), and northwestern Gandhara/Parapamisos (including Av. Rāγa, Caxra, and Varəna; Old Pers. Gāndara) (Fig. 2). The Avestan list extends from this core into Western, Central and South Asia, often following river valleys. With the Vaŋhuuī Dāitiiā, the “Good Lawful River,” at its headwaters, the ancient Oxus (Old Ir. Waxš, mod. Amu Darya) river flowed northwest through ancient Bactria into Sogdiana. Beginning in the Hindu Kush and flowing southwestwards, the Haraxvaitī (mod. Arghandab) and Haētamant (mod. Helmand) joined and flowed into Lake Hamun, one of the holiest sites of Zoroastrianism. The Cophes (Kabul) river flowed southeast through the Hindu Kush to the Indus, while the lowland plains eventually connected with the Gangetic plain.

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Given how freely the ancient and modern geographies are conflated in the scholarly literature (especially in the titles of historical studies seeking modern relevance), it is not superfluous to emphasize that the present-day borders of Afghanistan do not correspond to the conceptual or lived experience of the geographies of the ancient lands nor ancient ideas of their interconnection. The modern borders of Afghanistan contain the central mountainous core dividing the ancient lands, but, due to colonial partitions, only fractional sections of the river valleys and plains that formed the core of the pre-modern provinces. This is especially stark in the case of Bactria. In antiquity the province centered on the Oxus river system, which now is treated as an artificial border that divides the ancient valley in half. Avestan Gāuua and Mouru extend into present-day Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan. Avestan Rā𝛾a, Caxra, Varəna and Hapta Həṇdu, the “seven rivers” (Sk. saptasiṃdhava, of the Rigveda) extend from Badakhshan (divided between Tajikistan and Afghanistan), through modern Pakistan’s Chitral province and the Indus river valley in the Punjab. Even if it might be useful for historical reflection on contemporary phenomena or simply as a convenient label, from the perspective of ancient Iranian studies, applying the name “Afghanistan” to these ancient regions without qualification would be anachronistic and methodologically unsound for historical inquiry. Continuity, Change and Imperial Interventions in Conceptualizing Eastern Iran Expressed visually in the Achaemenids’ rock reliefs and the sculptural programs of their palaces, the standard listing of the Persian Empire’s lands in the royal inscriptions portray the Persian homeland, Pārsa, and its people at the center of the empire with all other lands and people constellated around it. 3 Many of the Achaemenids’ eastern provinces correspond closely to the Avestan lands even if others contain multiple Avestan lands within them. Moreover, they enjoyed relatively high status within the ideological armature of the empire as developed under Darius I, to the point that one must take seriously the possibility that of some mutual influence. With respect to the Iranian east, these lands are given a relatively high status and are grouped among those whose share a cultural, religious or linguistic affinity with the Persians. With the exception of the Elamites, whose religious and administrative traditions were nonetheless spliced with those of the Persians, they are enfolded in a group implied to have an Iranian linguistic affinity as well. The proximity of the Gandharans and Sattagydians (Av. Rā𝛾a, Caxra, and Varəna, and Hapta Həṇdu) compared to, for example the Babylonians and Assyrians, is also remarkable. […] imā dahyāva, tayā adam agṛbāyam, apataram hacā Pārsā; adamšām patiyaxsayai̭ , manā bājim abaraha; tayašām hacāma aθanhya, ava akunava; dātam, taya manā, - avadiš adāraya: Māda, Ūja Parθava, Harai̭ va, Bāxtriš, Suguda, Uvārazmiš, Zranka, Hara.uvatiš, ϴataguš, Gandāra, Hinduš, Sakā hau̯ mavargā, Sakā tigrax3 Two early formulations: DB § 6 and DNa § 3. For an overview and entry into the art historical literature, see Root 2014.

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au̯ dā, Bābiruš, Aθurā, Arbāya, Mudrāya, Armina, Katpatuka, Sparda, Yau̯ na, Sakā tayai paradraya, Skudra, Yau̯ nā takabarā, Putāyā, Kūšiyā, Maciyā, Kṛkā. 4 … These are the lands, which I took, far from Persia; I lorded over them, they bore me tribute, what was proclaimed to them by me, that they did; my law held them: Medians, Elamites, Parthians, Arians, Bactrians, Sogdians, Chorasmians, Drangians, Arachosians, Sattagydians, Gandharans, Indians, Haoma-drinking Scythians, Pointed-hat Scythians, Babylonians, Assyrians, Arabians, Egyptians, Armenians, Cappadocians, Lydians, Ionians, Scythians beyond the Sea, Thracians, Petasos-wearing Ionians, Libyans, Ethiopians, Omanis, Carians. A province like Babylonia might be more economically and administratively pivotal for the empire, yet these eastern Iranian lands enjoyed greater prominence in the inscriptions. The Old Persian inscriptions are ideological constructions and reflect the new Iranian religious reorientation in Achaemenid royal self-expression that emerged under Darius I. Here, as in their palaces’ sculptural programs, the Achaemenid imperial formulation manipulates Avestan cosmology, with a similar movement from center to periphery with relative proximity to the center denoting a land’s relative civilization and its people’s “moral preeminence.” 5 Even if the Avestan prayers were only encountered as mumbled chants for most within the Persian Empire, the idea of a larger interconnected geographical and cultural unit spiraling out from the center provided a basic armature on which later concepts of empire in Iran were built. They offered an Iranian religious foundation and supplement to equally important Mesopotamian traditions. The Achaemenids’ descriptions of their empire did not map onto that of the Avestan conception of the Iranian lands, but rather plays off of its structure in the same way their royal narratives engage epic formulae. 6 The early Seleucid Empire’s seizure and reconfiguration of the Achaemenid topography of power emerges as a particularly pivotal moment in the formation of both a new Iranian identity and a characteristic regional imperial tradition under their Greco-Bactrian and Kushan successors. Their own imperial strategies and infrastructures provided a powerful matrix from which new empires grew and flourished. The Seleucid period represents a profound moment of rupture in cultural memory for Iran and this is also the case for the conceptual geography into which these lands were incorporated. The Seleucids quickly- and deliberately-downplayed the legacy of Alexander and the Achaemenids alike as the new dynasty asserted control. The Seleucid empire was ‘spear-won land,’ and while our literary and archival sources suggest that these regions persisted as distinct administrative entities, they were more often the than not enfolded into the more amorphous category of “The Upper Satrapies,” which seems to encompass the entirety of 4 DNa § 3.A–V, ed. Schmitt 2009: 101–102. 5 Lincoln 2012: 285, see also 108–111. On the impact of Avestan religion and Iranian epic traditions on Achaemenid discourse, see Skjærvø (1999; 2005); Shayegan (2012). 6 Kellens 2000: 25–30; Skjærvø 2005: 2014.

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the Iranian Plateau. 7 The extent of the regions associated with several ancient toponyms, most notably Sogdiana, shift over time, at least as far as can be tracked in the classical authors. Unfortunately we do not have commensurate primary-source formulations from the Greco-Bactrians, Kushans, or for that matter, the Parthians, which would enable us to track ruptures and continuities in imperial conceptions of the eastern Iranian lands. In this regard, similarities between the Achaemenid and Sasanian formulations most likely arose from a process of reinvention and reconstruction rather than simple continuity. 8 The sacred geography of the eastern Iranian lands played an important role in Iranian and Zoroastrian identity through the end of the Sasanian Empire, though with several notable conceptual and topographical shifts. The regions are ‘de-centered’ in the Sasanian imperial formulation. Not by coincidence, by the Sasanian period, many Avestan toponyms or sacred sites ‘leaked’ westward and this sacred geography was re-emplaced on the lands of the actual empire, with a noticeable shift westwards. 9 While it is especially dramatic in the Sasanian period, this mutually transformational dialectic between Iranian religion and Iranian empires was a process that began much earlier, at least under the Parthians though possibly under the Achaemenids as well. These regions maintained a relative conceptual centrality, though it should be stressed that the similarities between the Achaemenid and Sasanian formulations most likely arose from a long processes of reinvention, re-imagination and reconstruction rather than simple continuity. 10 Controlling and Reordering the Landscape Having considered continuities and changes in ancient Iranian sacred and imperial geographies, we now turn to the environmental and infrastructural means by which they were welded into an imperial ‘ideational landscape.’ Just as importantly, we consider the deliberate strategic, dislocations or appropriations by which one empire obliterated, subsumed or appropriated their predecessors’ or competitors’ topography of power, that is the infrastructural, architectural and environmental underpinnings of empire. Developing from this longer process, we see the emergence of a collection of imperial techniques or imperial idioms that became intrinsic to the effective projection of power over an “Afghan” empire straddling Central and South Asia. In this regard, what follows here grows theoretically from arguments established in my recent book, which analyzes the role of the built and natural environment in shaping and transforming Iranian kingship and Iranian identity through changes in Iranian landscapes, cities, sanctuaries, palaces and paradises. 11

7 8 9 10 11

For a detailed consideration of the Seleucid imperial provinces, see Capdetry 2007: 225–309. Canepa 2013; Canepa 2018. Canepa 2018: 271–290. Canepa 2013; Canepa 2018: 251–270. Canepa 2018.

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The Achaemenid Eastern Satrapies and Persian Topographies of Power Satrapal estates formed the infrastructural and administrative backbone of the Achaemenid Empire in their provinces. These were organized around a fortress with subsidiary structures and paradise depots laid out diffusely in the surrounding region. Whether situated in a well-established, dense urban center or a newly laid out country estate, Persian satrapal residences reconfigured the relationship of a region or province to its landscape. While their methods might vary, their goal was the same: to systematically subordinate previous sites of power, be they living cities, conquered citadels or significant natural features. Any Achaemenid additions or modifications were most often integrated into preexisting palatial districts, which is very similar to their approach to established sanctuaries, where they also made carefully modulated additions. In some cases satrapal residences occupied the sites of the palaces of conquered or even long-dead empires and were intended to claim or reanimate the ruins of these ancient sites of power and memory. Surviving administrative documents and corroborating historical sources suggest that all major residence cities functioned as superregional administrative, economic and military centers and were occupied by a satrap when the king was not present. The palaces and their surrounding installations collected and distributed commodities, foodstuffs and monetary and symbolic resources. Economically or strategically important satrapal capitals, such as Bactra served these same administrative functions and enjoyed similar associated infrastructure, including archives, storehouses, paradise plantations and military strongholds. While fragmentary, the archival and archaeological evidence suggests that Achaemenid satrapal and elite estates functioned similarly in Bactria. Heavily fortified citadels anchored these elite estates and larger settlements. In most cases, these settlements did not encompass expansive, dense, walled cities. Instead, elite estates and peasant populations extended through the countryside, and in certain newly founded centers located in strategically sensitive regions, included an area within its circuit walls that was lightly or non-urbanized. To judge from other regions of the empire, even where the Achaemenids built extensively, its infrastructural imprint was not as extensive as the later Hellenistic period. 12 The various constituents of the city, including palaces, storehouses, administrative areas, workshops and industrial installations, and funerary monuments sprawled over several hundred hectares, all while conforming to a larger centrally imposed organizational logic. Excavations in the environs of royal residences such as Persepolis and Pasargadae, have yielded both industrial and domestic installations, which are not dissimilar to regional centers like Dascylium and Dahan-e Gholayman. 13 Most characteristically, open spaces containing parks, gardens, orchards and cultivated fields separated and intermingled with more architecturally dense sectors especially those hosting royal or elite structures, which were well integrated into landscaped areas. The larger population, whose presence is well

12 Gondet 2014. 13 Gondet & Thiesson 2013; Benech/Boucharlat/Gondet 2012. See below.

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attested in the archival sources, was dispersed in smaller agrarian or pastoral settlements throughout the immediate region. 14 Contrasting with the Seleucids, whose primary challenge was to supplant and supersede the memory and prestige of the Achaemenids and Alexander, the Persian Empire did not encounter the architectural or urbanistic remnants of a previous imperial tradition in the region that served either as a rival tradition or ready-made tool for communicating cross-continentally. The Achaemenid imperial footprint could be subtle in some provinces even as the empire introduced structures that left an unmistakable imperial imprint in those where it was deemed necessary or useful to engage preexisting traditions. In some satrapies, for example Egypt, Babylonia, and western Anatolia, the Achaemenid authorities engaged well-established urban, artistic or architectural traditions to subtly gain control of important sacred sites or former seats of power. In regions where the empire felt compelled to foreground their imperial presence or which lacked the preexisting infrastructure, the Achaemenid imprint appears stronger. The archaeological evidence would seem to suggest that the Persians held Bactria, Arachosia and Gandhara in a very light imperial embrace in comparison to the Hellenistic period if one uses later Seleucid and Greco-Bactrian infrastructural investments as a benchmark. Yet the remnants of Achaemenid Elamite and Aramaic archival documents found in eastern satrapal capitals, references to eastern goods and workers in western archives, objects from the east held the Persepolis treasury, as well as the literary sources and scattered finds such as the Oxus Treasure, all attest to the fact that even in these regions, their economies and elites were indeed well integrated into Achaemenid systems of bureaucratic and symbolic control. The extent of the Achaemenid fortification walls at Samarkand as well as the creation of a major canal system, provide vivid testimony to the ability of the Persians to put a strong monumental mark on Sogdiana. 15 As at Zranka/Drangiana, these satrapal and elite centers might at times draw from ideas taken from Achaemenid architecture, even as they drew from local prestige architecture, as witnessed for example at Dascylium. In Bactria and surrounding regions very few monumental structures can be securely dated to the Achaemenid period. Moreover, unlike Dahan-e Gholayman further east in Zranka/Drangiana, their architectural forms often do not show evidence of a close replication of ideas from the imperial center. As a point of comparison, the Achaemenid period did not introduce new irrigation techniques to regions such as Bactria as was the case with Egypt, although the existing systems did experience an expansion. While these canals and agricultural lands did not necessarily derive from imported technologies, as far as we can currently tell, the Achaemenids claimed existing networks and welded them together into regional or satrapal administrative units on the model of their estate system. Especially in Bactria and Chorasmia, strategically

14 Henkelman 2013. 15 Rapin & Isamiddinov 2013; Rapin & Isamiddinov 1994.

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placed fortresses at nodal points for the distribution of water could serve as crucial infrastructural leverage points to control the extensively irrigated plains. 16 Excavations brought to light a small number of structures that likely date to the Achaemenid period scattered at sites across Afghanistan and the former Soviet republics. Although their original excavator attempted to interpret them as palaces, buildings I and II at Altin 10 both present architectural ground plans that are more readily comparable to other types of structures found at Achaemenid sites outside of the region. Located in northern Afghanistan Altin 10.II, a square structure, 36 by 36 m, contained a large internal court surrounded by corridors communicating with series of narrow rooms. With only one entrance, this structure recalls (but does not replicate) the Persian treasuries and storehouses at Persepolis as well as those built later on a similar conception, such as at Ai Khanum and Parthian Nisa. Altin 10.I, presented a rectangular structure, 80 by 55 m, with two courtyards surrounded by a porticos and divided in the center by a narrow line of rooms and a central platform. Its ground plan finds no exact formal match with any known structures, but the purpose of its open-air courtyard may correspond functionally to that of Building 3 at Dahan-e Gholayman. Altin 10 I and II do not integrate buildings that replicate the ground plans of palatial structures at Persepolis as does Dahan-e Gholayman, nor do they integrate masonry produced by an imperially trained workshop as at Karačamirli. Nevertheless they could have belonged to a functionally similar concentration of structures associated with a sub-satrapal or elite residence affiliated with the empire, perhaps representing a sort of Achaemenid satrapal ‘toolkit,’ if not a direct colonial implantation reflective of the center as at Dahan-Gholayman or Karačamirli. No matter if the region’s architecture reflected the imperial center, the remnants of the late Achaemenid and early Hellenistic Aramaic archive from Bactria attests to its bureaucratic integration. 17 Excavations at Old Kandahar yielded substantial evidence of Achaemenid investment in the site, including a 200 m2, 30 m high artificial platform and monumental structures, which formed the core it is administrative center (Fig. 3). 18 It was the find site of an Elamite tablet, indicative of a satrapal court with a bureaucracy well integrated into Persian administrative system. 19 Clear Achaemenid architectural remains have not been recovered from the citadel of Bactra (Old Balkh), yet it was begun or augmented in the Achaemenid period (Fig. 4). Like Merv, Bactra was an important Achaemenid satrapal center. While little to no trace remains of associated Achaemenid imperial architecture, we can infer that the fortified strongholds of the major Achaemenid satrapal centers presented an imposing architectural presence. Its roughly circular citadel may have recalled Kutlug Tepe, which Sarianidi erroneously labeled a temple, which was a fortress whose architecture recalls pre-Achaemenid fortifications in the region. If this fragmentary evidence is sufficient 16 See Pierre Briant’s chapter in this volume for a consideration of irrigation and archives in these regions as evidence for these regions’ integration into the empire. 17 Shaked 2004; Naveh & Shaked 2012. 18 McNicoll 1978; Whitehouse 1978; Helms 1982: 11; Fussman 2010. 19 Helms 1982: 18. Fisher & Stolper 2015.

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Fig. 3: Citadel of Kandahar, find site of the Achaemenid Elamite tablet

to constitute a pattern, it may recall Achaemenid Transoxiana, where structures, such as the mausoleums of Tagisken and Uygarak, appear to be continuous with pre-Persian traditions, while certain other complexes structures admit influence from the imperial center. For example, at Babish Mulla in the Iaxartes (Syr Darya) delta a quadrangular reception hall, 44 by 44 m stands at the center of a quadrangular fortress, presenting a smaller and less regularized version of the architectural forms at the Karačamirli. 20 Khona Qalʿa, 1.5 km north of the new Seleucid foundation of Ai Khanum, which superseded it, stands as a smaller fortress built to control the river valley. 21 The Achaemenid fortifications at Samarkand attest to an imposing set of circuit walls befitting its status. 22 This is one of the few newly fortified provincial strongholds for which we have archaeological evidence that suggest the same organization and extent of 20 In Chorasmia, excavations at Kyuzeli Gir and Kalali Gir I brought to light structures could similarly reflect Persian prestige architecture, though the dating and interpretation of these complexes is problematic. Lo Muzio 2017: 46–48. 21 Gardin 1998: 45–46. 22 Rapin & Isamiddinov 2013; Rapin & Isamiddinov 1994.

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Fig. 4: Plan of Balkh showing the Achaemenid citadel (Bala Hissar), Seleucid fortifications (portions rebuilt under the Timurids) and Tepe Zargaran, find site of Hellenistic monumental remains integrated into later structures

the imperial centers at Susa and Persepolis, with an elevated citadel-palace and lower city. Similar, though smaller, fortresses have been discovered in Chorasmia. The empty interior of these lower cities in Chorasmia has often been explained as a refuge for livestock and the surrounding population, though not unlike Susa’s the Royal City, it is possible they too could have hosted mobile courts and armies. From what evidence we have available, it appears the Persians followed a different approach in Bactria compared to satrapies that enjoyed a pre-existing, expansive and dense urban center like Babylon. The Achaemenids established footholds in Punjab, most notably Taxila, whose strategic purpose was to project power over the Hindu Kush and connect northern India with eastern Iran. As was observed by Fussman with reference to Taxila, the location was “convenient only for a Central Asiatic power that had to keep a watch over Gangetic India, or wanted use it as a springboard against Inner India (Achaemenians, Greeks, Kuṣāṇas), or for an Indian power whose interests lay, at least in part, west or north of it, in present-day

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Fig. 5: Plan of Taxila

Iran or Afghanistan, in former Bactria and Sogdiana (Greeks, Mauryans, British).” 23 Like spokes on a wheel, these regions were dependent on Bactria, and when Bactria became the seat of an empire in its own right, as would be the case under the Greco-Bactrians and Kushans, it acted in concert with Gandhara as the main pivot points for controlling empires that spanned the Hindu Kush. Achaemenid levels have been identified at Hathial ridge and Bhir mound at Taxila, though no clear evidence emerged of an urban fabric or buildings. 24 Bhir mound, traditionally identified as the Achaemenid citadel, remained the chief area of occupation under the Mauryas (Fig. 5). It was densely occupied, though we have little sense of the na23 Fussman 1993: 87. 24 Alchinn 1995: 130–131. Callieri 2012.

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ture of the architecture inside in earlier levels, let alone any structures with clear parallels to the Achaemenid center, though it was more likely a stronghold with diffusely organized subsidiary emplacements than a city per se. 25 It is even possible that the settlement could have been founded before the Achaemenid expansion and was taken over by the Persians. 26 While its exact chronology is still under debate, it was the region’s principle settlement under the Achaemenids, and any power with pretentions to exert control over the Hindu Kush to India, or vice versa, reinvested in the site, resulting in the accumulation of numerous foundations, some with multiple levels of occupation. 27 Achaemenid interest in Taxila established a precedent, even if later cities took on different forms. The multiple cities, laid out either in parallel or on top of each other, all bear the marks of northern, Iranian empires in their urban design even if they might be filled in later on with architecture with origins in South Asian. Abundant and clear architectural evidence for the impact of Achaemenid occupation on the regions has not been forthcoming, especially at Taxila, which has not revealed clearly imperially-implanted architecture of the sort found at, for example, Kandahar or Dahan-e Gholayman. This should be not surprising, nor used as conclusive evidence to argue against Achaemenid involvement, especially given the similarly light footprint at sites in Bactria such as Balkh. 28 The Achaemenid impact on the region is certainly detectible, and includes the scattered appearance of punch-marked currency in use north of the Hindu Kush in the Persian period, seal imagery and the use of Aramaic, not to mention radiocarbon dating of relevant layers at Taxila to the Achaemenid period. 29 The establishment of the Achaemenid satrapy wrought noticeable changes in the larger regions’ material culture too, in effect splitting the area to the west of the Indus into a separate entity from those east of the Indus, with which they formerly shared a material cultural unity. 30 Moreover, northern India appears as economically and bureaucratically integrated into the Persian empire in the Persepolis archives, with officials moving back and forth along the road system supported by the Persian imperial rations and with official guides. 31 This pales in comparison with the substantial changes in the visual arts, ceramics, architecture, epigraphy and coinage that the Indo-Greek invasion brought to the region, but these changes cannot be dismissed as a mere mirage given the light footprint that Achaemenids left on other satrapies and the problematic and incomplete history of excavation at the site. As Pierre Briant’s chapter in this volume contends with regard to Bactria, continuities of local cultural forms and institutions does not necessarily mean the absence or frailty of Achaemenid imperial control; rather, combined with evidence of intensification

25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Callieri, Pierfrancesco. 2012. “India iii. Relatrions: Achaemenid Period.” EIrO. Allchin 1995, 131–32. Allchin and Allchin 1982. Fussman 1993. Callieri 2012. Lhuillier 2017. Coningham and Young 2015, 379. With earlier literature: Callieri 2012. Allchin 1995, 131. Magee and Petrie 2007, 514–515. PF 1318 and PF 1317. Kuhrt 2007, 733, no. i.

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and greater cross-regional contacts, they point to the genius of the empire in adapting, reshaping and exploiting local systems for its own ends. 32 The Seleucid Empire and a New Imperial Urbanism: Claiming and Reordering Achaemenid Imperial Space Although Alexander overthrew the Achaemenids, it was the Seleucid dynasty that truly transformed the Persian Empire into a new Western Asian empire. Scholarly debate from the last century either characterized the Seleucid period as a superficial colonial occupation with little permanent impact, or, in reaction, argued that the Seleucids seamlessly took over the Achaemenid empire and royal identity in an unbroken process. New evidence from archaeological and archival sources, both from the last century and recently, has suggested a much different pattern. As I have argued in much greater depth elsewhere, the Seleucids radically remade the Achaemenid Empire, introducing lasting innovations with a deep impact on Western Asia, transforming it from a “Persian” empire to an “Iranian” empire with a renewed focus on northern and eastern Iran, sidelining Pārsa. 33 Seleucus I and later his son Antiochus I systematically disrupted the Achaemenid conceptual and physical topography of power. Although some sites continued in use, the Seleucid campaign of city foundation and re-foundation reshaped and reoriented the former Achaemenid Empire on an empire-wide scale, regionally and, most importantly, locally. This process changed the settlement patterns and economies of many of the lands. Just as importantly, the ideational landscape was refashioned and in some instances, completely reconfigured or even effaced. As will become clear, with a prodigious campaign of city foundation or re-foundation, they left a much heavier footprint on their empire, including eastern Iran. While many Persian monuments and traditions endured after Achaemenids’ fall, few survived without the marks of Seleucid appropriation, disruption or neglect. No matter if it retained a role within the new imperial system or was excluded from it, no region of major royal or satrapal importance remained unchanged by the Seleucids. Beginning with Seleucus I Nicator, the dynasty embarked on an ambitious program of city foundation. Seleucia-on-the-Tigris and the cities of the Syrian Tetrapolis unquestionably soon took their place as the main Seleucid royal residences and ideological centers. In the Seleucid provinces, Seleucid agents laid out immense new satrapal or sub-satrapal centers, either modifying existing Achaemenid settlements or founding new cities on virgin soil in regions that had gained new strategic importance. In addition to newly built sites, the Seleucids reconfigured and recoded ancient settlements through a process of parallel- or re-foundation, including three of the major Achaemenid royal residence cities, Susa, Ecbatana and Babylon. The Seleucids’ massive program of city and fortress foundation changed the patterns of settlement, agricultural production, trade and communication of the former Persian Empire, at times profoundly. The new cities or 32 With specific reference also to Kuhrt (1987: 238). 33 Canepa 2018.

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fortresses they founded and old ones they took over, replaced or neglected, cumulatively shifted Western Asia’s topography of power. Most notably in this regard, Seleucids never engaged or rebuilt the palaces in the heartland of Pārsa, the homeland of the Achaemenid dynasty. Not interested in portraying themselves as Achaemenid scions, the former dynasty’s most esteemed sites of memory, including the palaces and tombs of Pasargadae, Persepolis and Naqš-e Rostam, never played a central role in their symbolic topography of power. Though it remained an important regional religious center, even Babylon eventually was eclipsed by Seleucia on the Tigris. As we will see, Susa, though re-founded, was profoundly reoriented away from its former Achaemenid architectural and urban focal points. What eclipsed these sites in the Persian heartland was a network oriented towards a new northern and eastern topography of power in which Bactria initially played an important part. Let us now take a look at the techniques on the ground that the Seleucids deployed to reorder the empire. Turning our focus regionally or locally, three strategies emerge from the evidence. Many of these are identifiable in Bactria and surrounding regions and parallel Seleucid strategies in Pārsa, Babylonia and northwestern Iran. In some instances, the Seleucids founded new cities in sites with great strategic importance, such as Seleucia-on-the-Tigris and Ai Khanum, often times at the expense of ancient settlements that had served a similar purpose under the Achaemenids, thus a strategic dislocation. In others, the Seleucids directly appropriated Achaemenid settlements with only slight modifications. At times, the Seleucids’ modifications only marked a change in emphasis or scale, though not a drastic break with the state of affairs under the Achaemenids. Such a strategy was followed in those royal residence cities that fit in to their new imperial vision, such as Ecbatana (at least as far as we can tell) or Babylon, where the Southern Citadel and Summer palaces used and expanded by the Achaemenids continued in use, receiving Seleucid modifications. Yet, even as cities like Babylon or Ecbatana continued to serve as royal residences or satrapal centers and the Seleucids continued to utilize former Achaemenid paradise depots, the Achaemenid infrastructural and symbolic network into which they were incorporated was dramatically reshaped. However, in the majority of cases, the Seleucids were not content to reoccupy the old cities unchanged. In the case of cities like Merv and Bactra, the Seleucid re-foundation involved a concomitant strategic obliteration and reorientation. In addition to downplaying any important sites around which a renewed Persian empire could crystalize, like those in Pārsa, at sites like Susa this was effected locally by neutralizing monumental focal points with significance for the former empire from the city. The Seleucid campaign of city foundation repeated this process over and over again throughout western Asia. Given its importance, Susa presents a useful example as the Seleucids employed similar strategies of strategic reorientation at key regional cities in Margiana and Bactra. The fact that Susa flourished as a new Seleucid re-foundation has often been deployed as evidence of simple continuity. Far from it. It survived as an important city, but not without a major reorientation from its former status as one of the chief royal residences, something that was effected through its urban design as well. While its plinthea are not as visible as, for example, Dura-Europus, the density of domestic structures discovered in soundings suggests

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that Seleucid agents inscribed a grand new city onto the empty expanse of the Royal City, which had been largely devoid of permanent monumental construction in the Achaemenid period. In addition to gaining a permanent urban infrastructure and a significant population, the newly refounded Seleucid city’s expansion effected a radical reorganization of Susa’s symbolic and monumental environment, reorienting its urban focus away from the Achaemenid palace-citadel towards a new civic center to the south. In marked contrast to Babylon and Ecbatana, the archaeological evidence from the Achaemenid palace at Susa shows no official reoccupation. 34 Burials found here and nearby indicate that the area was excluded from the city proper. 35 When Susa was re-founded as Seleucid Seleucia-on-the-Eulaeus, its transformation into a new a Seleucid city had involved amputating its palace complex. No longer used as a royal residence or administrative center, it was deliberately allowed to decay and collapse, leaving it to rot as an anti-monument to the Achaemenids’ defeat. 36 The scattered material and epigraphic evidence that hints at Susa’s epiphanēstatos topos (“most conspicuous place”). This was the find site or internally referenced origin of the majority of Susa’s dedicatory inscriptions. It was located in an entirely different part of the city than the Achaemenid citadel, the so-called Donjon, and introduced a new urban focal point. Settlement patterns in the surrounding countryside changed as well, with population shifting to the new, dense gridded city laid out in the space of the formerly vacant Royal City. Bactria and Margiana both bear the marks of the great Seleucid campaign with the cities of Bactra, Ai Khanum and Merv providing useful illustrations of the range of Seleucid strategies, though, like Dura-Europus further west, their ambitious plans were only realized or filled in after they fell from the empire under the Parthians, or in the case of Bactra, the Greco-Bactrians. At Balkh (Bactra) and Merv the Seleucids laid out expansive gridded cities below the former Achaemenid citadels, which they retained as fortified ‘upper cities.’ The Seleucids’ combination of an elevated fortress with a sprawling walled city below created an urban conformation that would persist in eastern Iran and Central Asia for millennia to come. While the Achaemenid citadels retained their role as military strongholds, in the most important cities, the Seleucids imposed a new architectural and political focal point that superseded the old Persian locus of power. This is especially apparent at Balkh, where a new palatial district was built within the new Seleucid lower city. The French excavations at Balkh brought to light architectural members of a monumental size, including Corinthian and Ionic capitals and bases as well as large foundation blocks (Figs. 4 and 6). Although reused in later structures, the concentration in this sector suggests that it was the location of the city’s new Hellenistic basileia. 37 The 34 Martinez-Sève 2002: 41; Martinez-Sève 2015b; Boucharlat 1985: 74–6; Boucharlat 1993: 43–44; Boucharlat 2006; Boucharlat/Perrot/Ladiray 1987. 35 Such burials here and in the palace are in marked contrast to that of Kineas at Ai Khanum, which was a temenos—a religious sanctuary. Martinez-Sève 2002: 39; Perrot 2013. 36 Boucharlat 1985: 76; Boucharlat 1990a; Boucharlat 2006, 451–462. 37 Bernard/Besenval/Marquis 2006: figs. 10–11; Besenval & Marquis 2008; Fouache/Marquis/Besenval 2009.

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sector in which they were excavated, Tepe Zargaran, was located in the eastern part of the city by the fortification walls. Significantly Tepe Zargaran is in an entirely different part of the ancient city than the Achaemenid citadel and satrapal seat, Bala Hissar. While yielding no remains of monumental Hellenistic structures like those discovered at Tepe Zargaran, Bala Hissar did revealed evidence of Hellenistic occupation. 38 As far as we can tell, this suggests a strategy of spatial reorganization and dislocation analogous to elsewhere in the empire, both regionally, as at Ai Khanum, and within the same urban context, as at Seleucid Susa. While the citadel still functioned as a citadel, this new monumental complex rearranged the topography of power of this ancient city and reoriented it towards a new architectural and political focal point, in effect creating an urban system not dissimilar to Fig. 6: Monumental Corinthian column capital Ai Khanum. These structures were no from Tepe Zargaran doubt completed after the city fell from Seleucid control, though like Ai Khanum, it is likely that the Seleucids initiated the urban reorganization that their Greco-Bactrian successors completed, augmented by new ideas brought by Antiochus III’s anabasis. Antioch I’s foundation of Antioch-in-Margiana (Merv) presents a similar pattern. Its massive new Seleucid fortification walls enclosed an area of around 340 hectares, whose organization likely gave rise to the grid plan detected in later levels. The Seleucid city enveloped Gyaur Kala, the Achaemenid-era administrative and trading center, which was transformed into the Seleucid city’s elevated citadel. 39 Merv’s ceramic forms also experienced a massive change during this period when Hellenistic pottery styles appear in locally produced pottery. 40 While a sectional cut through Merv’s fortification walls has revealed their Hellenistic core, progressively augmented by the Arsacids and Sasanians,

38 Besenval and Marquis 2008: 980–982. The site did reveal the foundations of what appears to be a large, circular Achaemenid tower. Fouache/Marquis/Besenval 2009: 1025–1026. 39 Zavyalov 2007. 40 Puschnigg 2013.

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Fig. 7: Cut through the fortifications of the lower city of Merv (Gyaur Kala). First wall (core to the left) constructed by Antiochus I with two phases of alteration in the Greco-Bactrian period. Second (above the core) and third phases (in front) added under the Arsacids, with subsequent Sasanian additions and alterations

the Hellenistic layers of Merv are largely buried under the later layers (Fig. 7). 41 Much like the later expansion of Dura-Europus, it is possible that this massive enclosure was fully filled in only under later empires. Classical authors like Strabo remark on Merv’s agricultural fertility, which Antiochus I brought into full production through the development of extensive irrigation systems. 42 Kandahar presents an interesting point of contrast to Balkh and Merv, at least as far as we can tell given its limited excavations. As an important counterpoint, its remains show a city unmarked by a Seleucid reorientation. Even as a Greek influx after Alexander is detectible archaeologically, the city developed along a different pattern than those that had not been re-founded by the Seleucids. Falling outside of Seleucid control and within the Mauryan sphere of influence, the city’s urban fabric did not take on the character of a 41 Zavyalov and Simpson in Herrmann/Kurbansakhatov/Simpson 2001: 14–22; Jakubiak 2008; Simpson 2014. 42 Strabo 11.10.2. Plin. HN 6.46–47. Antiochus I raised a second circuit wall, known as the Gliakin-Chilburj wall, thought to protect the city’s agricultural hinterland from sandstorms. Bader/Gaibov/Košelenko 1995.

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typical gridded Seleucid city. Moreover, when rebuilt its fortifications appear to have been constructed by and large on Achaemenid models. 43 Established to serve as a major provincial center under Antiochus I, Ai Khanum holds exceptional importance for the study of the Hellenistic Far East, both under Seleucids and later independent dynasties. 44 The city was laid out on the confluence of the upper tributaries of the Oxus (Amu Darya) and Panj rivers on the Afghan side of the border with Tajikistan. It was laid out on a flat region between the rivers and an outcrop, which eventually hosted an upper city and citadel. Like many Seleucid colonies, Ai Khanum was laid out at a site of underexploited strategic importance to control regional movement and harness the surrounding region’s resources, in this case mineral wealth and agriculture. 45 While pot sherds from Ai Khanum’s citadel were produced by a garrison left either by Seleucus I or Alexander, the archaeological evidence from the lower city shows that the construction of the city proper only began under Antiochus I, who likely was the royal founder. 46 This 3rd century building phase laid out the foundational elements of Ai Khanum’s city plan and initial infrastructure such as the city’s first fortifications, its main street, and terracing on the slope of the acropolis, not to mention its main temple in the palatial district. Much like other Seleucid cities, its appearance overshadowed the nearby Achaemenid fortress at Khona Qalʿa, if not rendering it obsolete. As at other Seleucid re-foundations this ruin played an important role in shaping the the perception the significance of newly founded or re-founded Seleucid cities. 47 At such sites, Achaemenid monuments were displayed as slowly falling into ruin, eccentric to the newly founded, living urban centers, serving now as anti-monuments to the fall the Persian Empire. Here the medium of ruination was the message. Susa represents the most dramatic approach reserved for the most significant sites, though the strategic reorientation of the symbolic urban topographies of Balkh and Merv present variations on this theme. At Susa the new Seleucid city excised the former Achaemenid palace, which was left to slowly collapse and decay as a marker of the passage of time. Not all of the Seleucid or Greco-Bactrian cities were fully filled in. In fact many remained something like the empty suburban grids now reclaimed by desert or swamp in California and Florida after the Great Recession. This was the case for Ai Khanum from its founding under Antiochus I in the 3rd century, as well as the 2nd-century lower city of Dura-Europus, not to mention Greco-Bactrian Samarkand. But the ambitious scale was a statement in and of itself- statements of what inevitably ‘will be’, at least accord43 44 45 46

Helms 1982: 18. See the chapter and site plan by L. Martinez-Sève in this volume. Kosmin 2014b: 197; Mairs 2014: 59. Lyonnet has provided new precision to the ceramic chronology, which can be roughly anchored on coins of Antiochus I found in the reconstruction of the Temple with Niches. Lyonnet 2012; Lyonnet 2013a; Lyonnet 2013b; Martinez-Sève 2014a; Martinez-Sève 2014b: 270; Martinez-Sève 2010. This now reconciles the numismatic with the ceramic evidence, which was a flaw in earlier chronologies as pointed out by Fussman 1996. Lecuyot & Martinez Sève 2013; Martinez-Sève 2015a. 47 Discussed in further detail in Canepa 2018.

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ing to Seleucid hopes and dreams. Through much of their life under the Seleucids they remained empty, only fully filled in under later empires or though many ended one of the many unfinished cities of the various U.S., European or Chinese property bubbles. Nevertheless, during the empire’s beginning these foundations were powerful statements that- even unfinished- quickly established the idea and the experience of the empire in a very rapid interval. Bactria as Imperial Pivot under the Greco-Bactrians and Kushans Like the Achaemenid Empire, the internal engine of the early Seleucid Empire was the circulatory system, whereby the king moved continuously through the empire in a perpetual show of force to ensure that the machinery of resource extraction, conversion and redistribution continued. But in contrast to the Achaemenids’ estate system, Seleucid, and later Greco-Bactrian, cities concentrated power and elite groups urbanistically. They functioned not just as loci of military power and symbolic spaces, but conversion points for agriculture wealth into more liquid resources. As both Rolf Strootman and Paul Kosmin have explored, a king held together the empire through campaigning and when a king could not be present, cities and provinces were liable to throw their lot with someone who could. 48 The Seleucids had established numerous fortresses (phrouria) throughout their empire to control river traffic as in the case of Jebel Khalid in Syria, sea trade as at Ikaros on the island of Failaka, or, in Bactria, to control mountain passes. These could be simply strongholds or larger fortified complexes that could contain extensive domestic and even religious structures. When looking at post-Achaemenid Bactria we are dealing with a similarly pointillated imperial topography, wherein fertile plains and strategic nodes of communication were held under a tight imperial embrace and deserts, mountains and distant valleys controlled by proxies or left to their own devices. Nevertheless, when successfully “operated”, the Seleucids and later Greco-Bactrians could nevertheless project power over the most crucial aspects of the land by controlling critical chokepoints in overland routes, arable land in the plains, and hydrology. Regions like Arachosia under the Seleucids, Mauryas and Greco-Bactrians likely operated semi-autonomously, but when a king arrived with an army on campaign or with a new garrison, their elites were ready to come to terms and seek advantage. 49 In this regard, very little tangible remains attest to the Mauryan imperial presence in Arachosia other than Ashoka’s rock-cut inscription. 50 Nevertheless, its presence points to the fact that, once integrated into a new imperial system in this case with its center of gravity to the south, the city could serve a similar function.

48 Strootman 2014: 52–53. Kosmin 2014b: 142–180. 49 Mairs 2014: 110–13. 50 Fussman 2010. Canepa 2017. On the Iranian (including Seleucid) epigraphic tradition with which he engaged, see Canepa 2015b.

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The Greco-Bactrian and Kushan Expansions The Greco-Bactrians initially built their kingdom on the foundation that the Seleucids established. As illustrated most vividly at Bactra and Ai Khanum, the Greco-Bactrians kings finished the work that the Seleucids had begun, filling in the nearly empty royal foundations that Alexander or Antiochus I had established, and founding still more. Greek cultural institutions, most notably the gymnasium, functioned as unifying elements for the Greek military aristocracy. Growing from Seleucid traditions, the temples and palaces of the Greco-Bactrian and Arsacid kings combined Greek, Persian and Babylonian elements. Developed first by the Seleucids as an imperial statement, with the advent of an independent Bactria and imperial Parthia, these architectural traditions became an arena of competition among these three powers who all had imperial ambitions to control Western Asia. One of the most important legacies of the Greco-Bactrian kingdom was its expansion over the Hindu Kush into Northern India beginning with the conquests of Demetrius I (c. 205–170 BCE) and later expansion under Menander (ca. 160–145 BCE). 51 For a brief period, Bactria and northern India were held by a single imperial power, though Greco-Bactrian power soon fragmented into numerous Indo-Greek kingdoms, especially after Bactria itself fell to new steppe powers and local insurrection. Nevertheless the transmountain empire established precedents that the Kushans later built on. Once the Kushan dynasty consolidated power over the Yuezhi, they built a powerful empire that encompassed Bactria, what is now southern Uzbekistan and northern Afghanistan, and soon expanded to encompass northern India and the Gangetic plain. Bactria had an indigenous Iranian population as well as strong Hellenistic cultural and political traditions from decades as a Seleucid satrapy and, later, an independent Greek kingdom. Characteristic of the cultural matrix in which their kingship developed, the Kushans called the language they spoke ‘Aryan’ (airio) in a programmatic manner that engaged Achaemenid precedents, but wrote it using a modified Greek alphabet. 52 In addition to Iranian and Hellenistic traditions, Indian religious and artistic traditions became a third cultural force. The original core of their empire centered on present-day Afghanistan, possibly with Kapiśa (associated with present-day Bagram) as the royal residence, though dynastic sanctuaries spread through other regions attest to their collective importance. Their Indian possessions centered on Mathura and eventually became the most important part of their empire, where they engaged many South Asian royal and religious traditions. The religious and royal iconography of the Kushans similarly drew from the Hellenistic, Iranian, and Indian worlds, forging images that could speak across cultures, both within their empire and in the wider world. The Kushan dynasty facilitated interaction among Greek, Iranian, and Indian cultural traditions, and we have evidence that they patronized artists and architects trained in Hellenistic traditions to build Buddhist reliquaries and stupas.

51 See Coloru 2009 on the history of the Greco-Bactrian kingdom. 52 Rabatak 3. Shayegan 2012: 102–103. Panaino 2015.

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Samarkand (ancient Marakanda) and Ai Khanum illustrate the shifts in strategic priorities and imperial urbanism from the Achaemenids to the Seleucids to the Greco-Bactrian kingdom. Ai Khanum city fell from Seleucid control with the rest of Bactria ca. 246 BCE. The city’s infrastructure as well as its pottery remained largely unchanged until its great expansion in the late 3rd and early 2nd century. 53 The second major architectural phase began in the late 2nd century and corresponds to Antiochus III’s invasion of Bactria and extended into the 1st century. 54 The third building phase (ceramic period VII–VIII) corresponds the city’s growth as a royal capital under Eucratides until cut short by Ai Khanum’s violent destruction sometime between 145–140 BCE. 55 During this phase the palace was expanded, the gymnasium was constructed and many of the earlier monuments were renovated. The mud brick theater was in place at this point as well. The location of the city cohered well with the imperial geography of the Greco-Bactrian kingdom, when it reached the peak of its development and when the Greco-Bactrian kingdom fell, Ai Khanum lost its relevance. Though occupied by squatters for a while after its destruction, it is noteworthy that the city was never re-founded or given a parallel foundation by subsequent powers. When they retained their strategic utility, the Greco-Bactrians maintained or augmented the fortress system established by the Seleucids. Sites such as Kampir Tepe, located on the right bank of the Oxus, Kurganzol, in the Surkhandarya river valley, as well as Uzundara and Susiztag present evidence of these fortified citadels that held together the Greco-Bactrian kingdom. 56 Termez, Kampir Tepe and Kurganzol controlled movement through the river valleys while Uzundara, the site of a large rectangular citadel with stone walls, and the nearby stone fortifications at Suzitag, located ca. 7 km from the ‘Iron Gates’ controlled a chokepoints through the gorge leading from the main fortification walls. 57 Some of these sites came back to life under the Kushans. For example a lower city grew under the citadel of Kampir Tepe in the Kushan period and Termez experienced not only a great urban expansion under its Greco-Bactrian citadel but the growth of numerous Buddhist monasteries or shrines in the region at, for example, Kara Tepe and Fayaz Tepe. 58 Located about 35 km south of Ai Khanum, a 2nd century BCE, Greco-Bactrian citadel at Saksanokhur in Tajikistan contained a fortified palace with domestic architecture reminiscent of the elite domestic architecture at Ai Khanum and in Iran with the characteristic mixture of Greek- and Persian-style architectural members and ornament. Sakasanokhur appears to have hosted a palace whose ground plan and features, like Corinthian capitals, reflect the Perso-Macedonian and Greco-Bactrian styles of architecture seen in other variations at Takht-e Sangin, Balkh and Ai Khanum. However, unlike Ai Khanum, 53 Lyonnet 2012: 158. 54 Martinez-Sève 2014b: 270–271. 55 On the archaeological evidence for its destruction by nomads, see Rapin 2007. For a critique of the dating of the ‘fall’ of Ai Khanum, see Mairs 2014: 60–61. 56 See Lo Muzio 2017 for an overview and bibliography of these sites. 57 Rtveladze & Gorin 2015. Sverchkov 2008. Rtveladze & Dvurechenkaya 2015. 58 Lo Muzio 2017: 136–138.

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Sakasanokhur continued to be occupied under the Kushans, providing evidence of continuity for the Greco-Bactrian architectural vernacular that also characterizes the new dynasty’s sacred architecture. 59 Evidence from Sogdiana, including Samarkand and fortifications at ‘the Iron Gates,’ evince a different pattern that speaks to the region’s period integration and loss into a southern empire emanating from Bactria as well as its changing relationship with the steppe on the part the Seleucids and Greco-Bactrians. Ceramic evidence indicates that the city experienced two periods of Greco-Macedonian occupation. 60 The first phase (Afrasiab IIA) corresponds to an initial Macedonian conquest and occupation under Alexander and the early Seleucids. A granary on the city’s citadel is the only architectural remnant of this initial period and was destroyed in a violent conflagration. 61 The city fell from Seleucid control sometime in the mid-third century and it does not bear the marks of Antiochus I’s great campaign of city re-foundation like Bactra and Margiana. With the expansion of the independent Greco-Bactrian kingdom under Eucratides (170–145 BCE), Samarkand was again integrated into an “Afghan” imperial system around 160 BCE. The center of gravity of the resurgent kingdom was in Bactria with Ai Khanum as the royal capital. This occurred about the same time as Ai Khanum experienced its final phase of expansion in the second quarter of the 2nd century BCE, including the reconstruction of the city’s circuit walls. In an attempt to draw a line of control against northern nomadic incursions the ‘Iron Gates’ at Derbent were fortified and rebuilt several times in the Hellenistic period. 62 It is possible Seleucus I and Antiochus I began the project, and if so they represent a retrenchment and strategic retreat from the extent of Alexander’s empire. The Greco-Bactrians rebuilt the walls assert control over the Zerafshan valley and defend the Bactrian heartland. 63 As the relationship with the steppe was dynamic, the Greco-Bactrian kings expanded the fortifications several times, and they fell into disrepair after the kingdom expanded northwards ca 160 BCE to take and briefly hold Samarkand. These walls were later restored and rebuilt under the Kushans, whose own empire experienced a fluid relationship with the steppe although they did not long hold Samarkand. 64 Under the Kushans Bactria experienced a renewed period urban of expansion witnessed at such sites as Termez, Dalverzin Tepe, and Dilberjin, or increased density, as at Balkh. While their urban fabric does not display the same uniformity in design as Seleucid foundations, they nevertheless show broadly similar approaches, adapting the tradition of eastern Iranian city design that the Seleucids implanted across the Iranian plateau and the region. These cities incorporate a citadel attached to a fortified lower city and grew 59 Emphasizing local roots, Mairs (2011: 79–80) characterizes the style of building here and in Ai Khanum as “Greco-Bactrian architectural vernacular.” Indeed it became such a vernacular though its seeds were planted and fertilized by the Seleucids. 60 Lo Muzio 2017: 72–73. 61 Baratin & Martinez-Sève 2012. 62 Rapin 2007. Mairs 2014: 166. 63 Mairs 2014; Rapin & Isamiddinov 1993; Rapin & Isamiddinov 2013. Rapin et al. 2006 64 Rapin et al. 2006.

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to include extramural houses and sacred sites. 65 Termez overlooked the Oxus and, like Ai Khanum, controlled this important valley as well as movement north and south. In the case of Termez the rectangular Kushan citadel grew over a Greco-Bactrian fortress with the lower city growing adjacently in a manner not dissimilar to the expansion of Seleucid Merv and Balkh. Dalverzin Tepe, located north of the Oxus in the Surkhan Darya valley, also presents a similar urban plan, but founded in the Kushan period, at least as far as current evidence allows us to conclude. Numerous sacred sites, some with multiple reconstruction, and grand aristocratic residences have been excavated within their walls. The architectural traditions both employed were not implanted by the Kushans, but rather developed in new directions from the Seleucid/Greco-Bactrian matrix in the Kushan period. Dilberjin (Delbarjin) was located 40 km from Balkh and, like it, controlled the fertile and well irrigated plain. Dilberjin’s rectangular fortified lower city also yielded a temple with multiple reconstructions (the so-called Temple of the Dioscuri) and aristocratic houses as well as an extramural manor house. The circular citadel located on a natural highpoint was occupied under the Achaemenids, though in contrast to the other cities, it was sited at the center of the fortified lower city rather than at its edge. Balkh grew under the Kushans and numerous monasteries appear in its hinterland during this period. Some of Hellenistic architectural members from Tepe Zargaran were likely incorporated into Kushan-period sacred structures. Kapiśa, associated with present-day Begram, appears to have been the Kushan’s northern administrative seat. Located near Kabul it controlled routes south across the Hindu Kush to the emipre’s Indian core. Despite its identification as a palace by its excavators, the Kushan-period structure at Begram, does not correspond to palatial or high-status domestic design known throughout the region. 66 In fact, it may very well likely have been a merchant’s depot. 67 Nonetheless its holdings eloquently attest to the region’s wealth under the Kushans as a nexus of east-west/north-south trade. Taxila regained its strategically important position controlling northwestern India. It was not just the largest city in the Punjab, but all evidence indicates that it was the most important city in northwestern India through the Mauryan, Indo-Greek and Kushan periods. Bhir flourished under the Mauryas and a fragment of an Ashokan inscription attests to the importance of the city. Sirkap, built to the north, was founded by the Greeks and then later was rebuilt and refortified most likely the Indo-Scythians and Indo-Parthians. As testament to its importance in holding their Bactrian-Indian empire the Kushans laid out a large new settlement nearby at Sirsukh (Fig. 5). Although scholars working in India have routinely sought and emphasized ‘local traditions,’ or features with possible correspondences to subcontinental phenomena, on a larger conceptual and infrastructural scale, the cities clearly evince ideas and techniques imported from north of the Hindu Kush. As Gerard Fussman argued in an important article published in 1993, the plans of the later succession of cities laid out at Taxila were built on a ‘Central Asian’ rather 65 For a recent (and thorough) overview of the sites in the Kushan period and their excavation history, see Lo Muzio 2017: 134–149, 185–86. 66 Hiebert & Cambon 2008: 146–147, 67 Mehendale 1996. Mairs 2012.

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than South Asian model even if they were later built over with structures drawing from Indian traditions. 68 Sirkap II, that is the Indo-Greek city was founded on a model that reflects both Seleucid and Greco Bactrian urban planning. It was laid out to the northwest of the Bhir mound, following a strategic shift from the Achaemenid city that parallels Seleucid and Greco-Bactrian reorientations further north. It was located in a defensible area flanked by a river, and laid out on a grid plan. It presented a clear break with what would have been most proximately understood to have been Bhir Mound’s Mauryan legacy. Sirkap was modified and a portion fortified with stone walls in an Indian style in the 1st century BCE departing from its earlier design. While the later Indian-style structures and fortifications obscure the architecture of the Indo-Greek level, the city retained its original grid. More to the point, its original siting and layout resembled a Seleucid and Greco-Bactrian city like Ai Khanum more than any to the south. Sirsukh too has all the markers of Central Asian towns built under the Kushans like Dilberdzin, Dalverzin Tepe or Qala-ye Zal. The only difference was that it was located on a plain and undefended. As Fussman observed, only an empire as powerful as that of the Kushans would have the luxury to be so unconcerned with defense. Altogether, the succession of cities and the periods when a cities at Taxila were founded, expanded or contracted attests to the its fundamental importance and reason for growth: to project imperial power over the Hindu Kush, connecting northwestern India to, or defending it from, eastern Iran. Culturally Complex Imperial Idioms Before concluding I want to explore one final problem, that is, the emergence and legacy of what I will term new ‘transcultural’ or ‘culturally complex imperial idioms,’ with the Kushan dynastic sanctuary as a test case. These visual and architectural traditions were designed and deployed to bind together empires that encompassed Western, Central and South Asia. The Seleucids in the Western Asian core of the empire created and imposed a new, official style that deliberately integrated Greek, Mesopotamian and Persian elements but cannot be located entirely in any single tradition other than a Seleucid imperial tradition. 69 Seleucid palaces and temples, or those rebuilt on Seleucid models as at Ai Khanum, also juxtaposed Persian, Mesopotamian and Greek architectural features into Greek ground plans. This strategic juxtaposition and its goals were not dissimilar to the Achaemenids’ architecture of power. Analogous to the Achaemenid juxtaposition of Assyrian, Babylonian, Ionic, Egyptian and Persian features, the Seleucid juxtaposition wasn’t mindless hybridity, but rather strategic confection with a profound imperial statement: the empire, like the structure, subsumes and supplants all previous traditions. The Seleucid architectural tradition was appropriated by the empire’s Arsacid and Greco-Bac68 Fussman 1993 69 Strategically deployed Seleucid transcultural imperial idioms and their later impact on the subsequent architectural traditions of Western, Central and South Asia analyzed in depth in Canepa (2018).

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trian rivals and successors in the east and in many ways what develops in Bactria can be seen as an outgrowth from this early stage of competition among the Seleucids, Parthians and Greco-Bactrians. I have analyzed the development of these traditions of art and architecture under the Seleucids and Parthians in several other studies and the impact of the Seleucid coinage on Western, Central and South Asian coinage traditions has an extensive literature. 70 Here I want to concentrate on the legacy of this ‘Perso-Macedonian’ architectural tradition and its development into a specifically “Afghan” imperial idiom, especially as reengaged by the Kushans. As evinced by the inscription left in Kandahar inscribed in Greek and Aramaic, Ashoka engaged with Seleucid imperial epigraphic practices as means to project power over his eastern Iranian holdings, which in turn derived in part from Achaemenid traditions. 71 Tellingly, the inscription at Taxila was in Aramaic, an imperial idiom reflective of the settlement’s historic integration into the orbit of the Iranian plateau. Like the identity of such a ruler, one can only speculate whether a Mauryan viceroy in Kandahar might have inhabited a Greco-Bactrian or Parthian style palace. Yet with the expansion of Greek power into India a multilingual epigraphic and numismatic tradition took hold in northern India and Greek architectural and sculptural forms became prestige idioms that served both sovereigns and religions, most notably Buddhism. Kushan Dynastic Sanctuaries and Transcultural Imperial Idioms The Kushans responded to Seleucid and Greco-Bactrian precedents, though, unlike the Arsacids, they did not engage them in direct competition with those empires but as a larger eastern Iranian idiom of power. Other than a few hints at smaller sites like Saksanokhur, we have little to attest to Kushan palatial architecture proper. However, their dynastic sanctuaries, that is, sites that celebrated a ruling dynasty, often alongside cult dedicated to dynastic gods, appear throughout the lands controlled by the Yuezhi/Kushans and illustrate how these culturally complex architectural and visual forms were deployed as imperial idioms. These sites include Khalchayan 72 in the Surxondaryo province of the present-day Uzbekistan, which is from the early days Yuezhi domination, and sites from the height of the Kushan empire, including, Surkh Kotal and Rabatak in present-day Afghanistan, 73 and Māṭ in the vicinity of present-day Mathura. 74 The architecture of 70 Canepa 2014; Canepa 2015; Canepa 2017; Canepa 2018. On the coinage tradition, see Cribb 2007. 71 Canepa 2017. 72 Pougatchenkova 1965. Early excavation history and interpretations summarized in Nehru (2006), though her arguments should be approached with caution regarding adherence to paradigms constructed by Soviet imperial ideology and the authors’ overemphasis on ‘local’ Bronze Age antecedents. 73 Schlumberger 1983–1990: vol. 1; Humbach 2003: 157–156; Huyse 2003. Related is the extensive inscription found at Rabatak, near Bagram; see Sims-Williams & Cribb 1995/1996; Sims-Williams 2004. For the Iranian cultural and religious context, see Canepa 2015a. 74 Huyse 2003; Rosenfield 1967: 140–142.

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Khalchayan and Surkh Kotal featured structures that evoked the Perso-Macedonian traditions of Seleucid and eventually Greco-Bactrian and Parthian prestige architecture, which had been applied to sacred and palatial architecture alike. Given the similarities in Hellenistic Iran between temples, such as the Seleucid Oxus Temple, and palatial structures, such as the palace and aristocratic residences at Ai Khanum, Khalchayan’s ground plan by itself does not reveal a single function. More characteristic of Seleucid temples, though not exactly replicating them, the Kushans built Surkh Kotal’s central temple employing the architectural features and sculptural styles of the post-Hellenisitic Iranian world. 75 Both sites were decorated with sculpture whose stylistic elements grew from the traditions of Greco-Bactrian art, including stone sculpture at Surkh Kotal and an extensive gallery of nearly life-sized painted clay sculptures at Khalchayan (Fig. 8). In contrast, the remains of Māṭ temple at ground plan suggest a temple on a podium with an apsidal cult chamber built in a contemporary Indian style with excavated parallels nearby. 76 Khalchayan’s clay statues engaged a Seleucid Fig. 8: Painted clay statue of a Yuezhi ruler and post-Seleucid tradition of Hellenistic holding armor from Khalchayan Iranian sculpture, which the Arsacids and Greco-Bactrians had deployed at Nisa and Ai Khanum, competing with the Seleucids and each other. Reflecting later developments, Surkh Kotal’s stone statues employed styles and materials similar to the region’s so-called ‘Greco-Buddhist’ style, while Māṭ’s sculptures were carved in the characteristic red sandstone and style of Mathura, the medium favored by the early Buddhist art of that region

75 Surkh Kotal 2. 76 Two temples excavated at the nearby site of Sonkh indicate that these were the favored type of Hindu temple in the region built during the Kushan era. Apsidal temple No. 2 at Sonkh belonged to level 5, the Kushan level; see Härtel 1993: 413–417.

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Fig. 9 (left): Limestone statue of a Kushan ruler from the dynastic sanctuary at Surkh Kotal; Fig. 10 (right): Sandstone statue of Kushan ruler from the dynastic sanctuary at Māṭ near Mathura

(Figs. 9 and 10). Together with the temples, they reflect a unified royal message ‘translated’ and adapted to mesh with the cultural and artistic traditions of the region. Despite these wide divergences, the Kushan sanctuaries in Bactria and India shared a remarkably uniform group of features: inscriptions, images of the living king, his ancestors, gods, and a central cult statue that received the main cultic focus. 77 Considering that the Kushans imported Central Asian city planning and defensive architecture into India, adapting its principles to local conditions, it is not surprising that these cultic traditions would also travel wherever Kushan royal power was located. 78 We see analogous iconographic ‘code-switching’ in Kushan coinage, most notably that of Kanishka, which portrays deities in an Iranian, Greek and Indian iconographies, many of which deliberately overlapped. Similarly, Kanishka states that he composed his Rabatak edict in Greek before it was translated into ‘Aryan,’ that is Bactrian written in a modified Greek script, while the various inscriptions from Mathura, which contain similar programmatic themes, were in Sanskrit. 79 Despite these stylistic, material, and formal correspondenc77 Canepa 2015a: 85–92. 78 Fussman 1993. 79 Rabatak 3. On the programmatic context of ‘aryan’ within the traditions of Iranian kingship, see Panaino 2015.

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es with the visual cultures of the regions in which they were created, the basic elements and stated purpose of the Kushan foundations closely and unmistakably respond to the features of Iranian dynastic sanctuaries, even when they superficially appear to venerate non-Iranian gods. The sites’ inscriptions, which detail their construction and restoration, prove that both the Bactrian and Indian sanctuaries were based on a single Kushan institution, were conceived and implemented through central courtly patronage and served the same function. 80 These Kushan sanctuaries demonstrate how the idioms of cultural, architectural and discursive bilingualism developed under the Greco-Bactrians and Indo-Greeks and utilized by the Mauryas, served the Kushans as tool to hold together empire that spanned Bactria and India. Moreover, these same architectural and visual traditions served Buddhist patrons in Bactria and Gandhara. The development of later Gandharan art lies beyond the scope of this contribution, but it too grew from this new culturally complex matrix that came to full development under the Kushans. 81 As a proselytizing religion targeting elites, Buddhism took advantage of a prestigious visual idiom that had currency well beyond the region, reaching into Iran and Central Asia. Conclusion: Ancient “Afghanistan,” Cradle and Pivot of Empires This study has tracked the conceptual and infrastructural changes that reshaped the eastern Iranian lands into imperial provinces or forged them into new empires. As they did elsewhere in their empire, as for example in Armenia and Anatolia, in Bactria the Achaemenids claimed sites of regional power and integrated them into the empire’s bureaucratic infrastructure. Without a previous empire that held all lands in a single imperial embrace, the Persians modulated their imperial expressions, putting a heavy imperial stamp on certain regions even as they left a light touch in others. As far as we can tell, the Achaemenids’ interventions in the Iranian east and northern India did not make a deep archaeological impact, at least not in comparison to regions like Iberia or Pārsa. Even as they enjoyed the advantage of provinces that had experienced integration into a larger imperial unit, not to mention the remnants of a preexisting imperial bureaucratic machinery to rule them, the Seleucids faced the challenge of supplanting and superseding the Persians’ prestigious precedent. In response to this the Seleucids employed more interventionist approach, introducing urbanistic, artistic and architectural traditions that had a long legacy in the region. Like elsewhere in Western Asia, the early Seleucid empire deliberately reoriented local and regional topographies of power and the effects of this are readily apparent in Bactria and Margiana. The architectural traditions they introduced laid the basis for the later Greco-Bactrian and Kushan traditions. The Greco-Bactrians, like the Parthians further west, engaged Seleucid infrastructural, artistic, architectural 80 Fussman 1989: 195. 81 For an entry into the debates on Gandharan art and architecture, see Behrendt 2003; Litvinsky 2005 as well as Oxford University’s developing online Gandharan Art Bibliography.

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and epigraphic templates to establish their own empires, as did the Mauryas when they extended their empire into Arachosia. Stemming from these precedents we begin to see a dynamic particular to trans-Hindu Kush empires, that is, a strategy of imperial transculturalism and visual, architectural and discursive and ‘multilingual’ idioms. Far from a graveyard of empires, the regions encompassed by present-day Afghanistan served as a superregional or even transcontinental pivot for the empires that held it or those that emerged from it. These lands provided the primary ligature between imperial holdings in Central and South Asia, in the case of the Achaemenids, Alexander and the Seleucids, the imperial core further west. The Achaemenids controlled their holdings in Gandhara and the Indus valley via Bactria and Arachosia respectively. While they did not extend their empire into South Asia nor hold it long, early Seleucid foundations in Bactria indicate that the region was intended to serve as a similar point of connection between Central and Western Asia. Under the Greco-Bactrians, Bactria again became an imperial pivot, but this time oriented on a north-south axis, as they briefly expanded north into Sogdiana and invaded India. With the conquest and consolation of their Bactrian-Gangetic empire, the Kushans fully realized the region’s potential, building an empire that presaged that of the Mughals. Bibliography Allchin, F.R. 1995. “Early Cities and States Beyond the Ganges Valley” In The Archaeology of Early Historic South Asia: The Emergence of Cities and States, edited by Allchin, F.R. and Erdosy, G., 123–151. Cambridge. Allchin B. and Allchin R. 1982. The Rise of Civilization in India and Pakistan. Cambridge. Baratin, Ch. and Martinez-Sève, L. 2013. “Le grenier grec de Samarkand” Cahiers d’Asie centrale 21/22: 373–389. Behrendt, K.A. 2003. The Buddhist Architecture of Gandharā. Leiden. Bader, A.N., Gaibov, V.A. and Kolšelenko, G.A. 1995. “Walls of Margiana.” In In the Land of the Gryphons: Papers on Central Asian Archaeology, edited by Invernizzi, A., 39–50. Florence. Benech, Ch., Boucharlat, R. and Gondet, S. 2012. “Organisation et aménagement de l’espace à Pasargades: reconnaissances archéologiques de surface, 2003–2008” Achaemenid Research on Texts and Archaeology 2012.003: 1–37. Bernard, P., Besenval, R. and Marquis, P. 2006. “Du ‘mirage bactrien’ aux réalités archéologiques: nouvelles fouilles de la Délégation archéologique française en Afghanistan (DAFA) à Bactres (2004–2005)” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 150.2: 1175–1248. Besenval, R. and Marquis, P. 2008. “Les travaux de la Délégation Archéologique Française en Afghanistan (DAFA): résultats des campagnes de l’automne 2007 e Printemps 2008 en Bactriane et à Kaboul.” Comptes rendus des séances de l'Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 152.3: 973–995. Boucharlat, R. 1985. ‘Suse, marché agricole ou relais du grand commerce. Suse et la Susiane à l’époque des grands empires.” Paléorient 11.2: 71–81.

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Magee P. and Petrie, C.A. 2017. “West of the Indus-East of the Empire: The Archaeology of the Pre-Achaemenid and Achaemenid Periods in Baluchistan and the North-West Frontier Province, Pakistan.” In The World of Achaemenid Persia, edited by John Curtis 503–522. London. Mairs, R. 2012. “Glassware from Roman Egypt at Begram (Afghanistan) and the Red Sea trade” British Museum Studies in Ancient Egypt and Sudan 18: 61–74. —. 2014. The Hellenistic Far East: Archaeology, Language, and Identity in Greek Central Asia. Berkeley. Martinez-Sève, L. 2002. “La ville de Suse à l’époque hellénistique” Revue archéologique 33: 31–53. —. 2010. “À propos du temple aux niches indentées d’Aï Khanoum: quelques observations.” In Paysage et religion en Grèce antique. Mélanges offerts à Madeleine Jost, edited by Carlier, P. and Lerouge-Cohen, C., 195–207. Paris. —. 2014a. “Les sanctuaires autochtones dans le monde iranien d’époque hellénistique” Topoi 19.1: 239–277. —. 2014b. “The Spatial Organization of Ai Khanoum, a Greek City in Afghanistan” American Journal of Archaeology 118.2: 267–283. —. 2015a. “Ai Khanoum and Greek Domination in Central Asia” Electrum 22: 17–46. —. 2015b. “Susa iv. The Hellenistic and Parthian Periods” Encyclopaedia Iranica. McNicoll, A. 1978. “Excavations at Kandahar, 1975: Second Interim Report” Afghan Studies 1: 41–66. Mehendale, S. 1996. “Begram: Along Ancient Central Asian and Indian Trade Routes” Cahiers d’Asie centrale 1: 47–64. Naveh, J. and Shaked, S. 2012, Aramaic Documents from Ancient Bactria from the Khalili Collections. London. Nehru, L. 2006. “Khalchayan” Encyclopaedia Iranica. Panaino, A. 2015. “ὉΜΟΓΛΩΤΤΟΙ ΠΑΡᾺ ΜΙΚΡΟΝ?” Electrum 22: 87–106. Pougatchenkova, G.A. 1965. “La sculpture de Khaltchayan” Iranica Antiqua 5: 116–27 Puschnigg, G. 2013. “The Dynamics of Exchange and Innovation in the Oasis City of Merv” Networks in the Hellenistic World: Pottery in the Eastern Mediterranean and Beyond, edited by Fenn, N. and Romer-Strehl, Ch., 339–350. Oxford. Rapin, C. 2007. “Nomads and the Shaping of Central Asia.” In Cribb and Herrmann 2007: 29–72. Rapin, C. and Isamiddinov, M. 1994. “Fortifications hellénistiques de Samarcande (Samarkand-Afrasiab)” Topoi. Orient-Occident 4.2: 547–565.  —. 2013. “Entre sédentaires et nomades: les recherches de la Mission archéologique franco-ouzbèke (MAFOuz) de Sogdiane sur le site de Koktepe.” In L’archéologie française en Asie centrale. Nouvelles recherches et enjeux socioculturels, edited by Bendezu-Sarmiento, J., 113–133. Paris. Rapin, C. et al. 2006. “Les recherches sur la région des Portes de Fer de Sogdiane: bref état des questions en 2005” Istoriya material’noi kul’tury Uzbekistana 35: 91–112. Root, M. Cool. 2014. “Achaemenid Imperial Architecture: Performative Porticoes of Persepolis” In Persian Architecture and Kingship: Displays of Power and Politics in Iran from the Achaemenids to the Pahlavis, edited by Babaie, S. and Grigor, T., 1–63. London. Rosenfield, J.M. 1967. The Dynastic Arts of the Kushans. Berkeley.

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Rtveladze, E.V. and Gorin, A. 2015. “Hellenistic Coins from Kampÿrtepa” Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 21: 120–185. Rtveladze, E.V. and Dvurechenkaya, N.D. 2015. “Uzundara: Ellinističeskja krepost’ v Baktrii (materialy rekognoscirovočno0razveditel’nych rabot 2013 g.)” Archaeologija Uzbekistana 2.11: 37–46. Schlumberger, D. et al. 1983–1990. Surkh Kotal en Bactriane. 2 vols. Paris. Schmitt, R. 2009. Die altpersichen Inschriften der Achaimeniden. Wiesbaden. Scott, J.C. 2009. The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia. New Haven. Shayegan, M.R. 2012. Aspects of History and Epic in Ancient Iran: From Gaumāta to Wahnām. Cambridge, MA. Skjaervø, P.O. 1999. “Avestan Quotations in Old Persian? Literary Sources for Old Persian Inscriptions” In Irano-Judaica IV: Studies Relating to Jewish Contacts with Persian Culture throughout the Age, edited by Shaked, S. and Netzer, A. 1–64. Jerusalem. —. 2005. “The Achaemenids and the Avesta” In Birth of the Persian Empire, edited by Curtis, V.S. and Stewart, S., 52–84. London. Shaked, S. 2004, Le satrape de Bactriane et son gouverneur. Documents araméens du IVe siècle av. notre ère provenant de Bactriane. Paris. Strootman, R. 2014. Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires: The Near East after the Achaemenids, c. 330 to 30 BCE. Edinburgh. Sverchkov, L.M. 2008. “The Kurganzol Fortress (on the History of Central Asia in the Hellenistic Era)” Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 14.1–1: 123–191. Vogelsang, W. 2000. “The Sixteen Lands of the Vidēvdād 1: Airyanem Vaejah and the Homeland of the Iranians” Persica 16: 49–66. Whitehouse, D. 1978. “Excavations at Kandahar, 1974: First Interim Report” Afghan Studies 1: 9–39. Zavyalov, V.A. 2007. “The Fortifications of the City of Gyaur Kala, Merv” In After Alexander: Central Asia before Islam, edited by Cribb, J. and Herrmann, G., 313–29. Proceedings of the British Academy 133. Oxford.

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Greek Power in Hellenistic Bactria: Control and Resistance Laurianne Martinez-Sève

Central Asian territories, including Afghanistan, were often integrated into empires and provide interesting examples for a research that examines the relationships between imperial and local powers, and explores how the populations react when confronted with a complex hierarchy of powers and processes of political domination. Following the conquests of Alexander the Great, these territories went under Graeco-Macedonian control for several decades (Fig. 1). Strictly speaking, they were part of empires only under Alexander and the Seleucid kings, and we should focus on their time-periods. However, our evidence is mainly archaeological and difficult to date precisely between the Seleucid and Graeco-Bactrian periods. Moreover, the Graeco-Bactrian kings were in many ways the heirs of the Seleucid ones, and since the sources of the Graeco-Bactrian period help to enrich our information, they will be taken into account as well. However, not is only our documentation limited, but it is also mainly archeological and difficult to use to answer our questions. It enables us to reach only general and schematic hypothesizes, which can be challenged at any time. Over the past two decades, many researchers have aimed to clarify the nature of the power exercised by these kings and to describe how their empires operated and how their territorial possessions were controlled. Concerning Alexander, these studies cannot be dissociated from a more general investigation encompassing the Achaemenid Empire, since the Macedonian king often behaved as the Persian kings did. This point is now clearly demonstrated, in particular thanks to Pierre Briant’s studies. 1 Recent publications dedicated to the Seleucid kings have also tried to reappraise the traditional conceptions that tend to present their empire as a weak and heterogeneous political construction, ephemeral because the kings did not seek to unify it. Laurent Capdetrey 2 and more recently Paul Kosmin 3 have shown that these kings succeeded in creating an imperial space thanks to their governance practices, and a Seleucid identity thanks to their propaganda. According to them, the kings and their administration were adaptive to the variety of local structures and able to integrate them in a common space. Other recent publications 1 Especially Briant 2002; Briant & Joannès 2006; Briant 2017: part 5. 2 Capdetrey 2007. 3 Kosmin 2014.

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Fig. 1: Hellenistic Central Asia. Ancient cities are shown in italics, modern cities in roman.

have described the Seleucid Empire as a complex structure of powers, 4 proposing to shift the focus from an analysis of territorial control to an analysis of the links of power uniting the kings to their subjects, the members of their administration (including the satraps), and also the dynasts and “petty kings” who controlled territories located within the empire or on its margins. These works can help to understand the situation in Central Asia, particularly in Bactria and Sogdiana.

4 Martinez-Sève 2011: 102–106; Engels 2011 and Engels 2014; Ramsey 2011; Chrubasik 2016: 22–64.

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The Military Conquest The Greek powers established their rule in Bactria and Sogdiana in different political and historical contexts, which we need to consider for a better understanding of the nature of their domination. There was at first a military conquest, under Alexander and again under Seleucus I, who had to reclaim Central Asia around 305 BCE. This last episode is largely unknown for lack of evidence, neither do we exactly know which political situation Seleucus found there upon arriving. We can guess, thanks to numismatics, that local players operated during these events, for example a man named Sophytos who coined in his own name. But we can not specify what kind of relationships these local players had with Seleucus, and more generally with Greek powers, what their was position after 305 BCE, and even if they were still alive at that time. 5 We are more familiar with how Alexander had taken possession of these territories. As he was faced with guerrilla operations, his strategy was based on building alliances with Bactrian nobles who joined forces with him, for example Oxyartes, but also on violence and the use of a policy of terror. 6 His troops committed several massacres, especially in 328 when he conducted punitive actions against the population of the Zeravshan valley, the former Polytimetus, after Spitamenes decimated one of his contingents. 7 Just as he left Central Asia, he also took with him 30,000 young men as hostages, in order to reduce the Bactrians’ resistance capacities. 8 Such a behavior may have taken its toll and greatly affected the relationships between the local population and Greek powers, but we do not have any evidence for that. During these events, mountains and deserts were places of refuge for these local populations, who took advantage of their familiarity with their environment. The Hissar Mountains, which form a powerful barrier between the Oxus basin to the south and the Kashka-Darya and Zeravshan valleys with the Samarkand oasis to the north, played this role (Figs. 2 and 3). Quickly, resistance organized beyond the Amu-Darya River, while the oases situated at the foot of the Hindu Kush Mountains (Bactra, Khulm …) were apparently conquered without any difficulty. 9 At all time, the Hissar Mountains provided safe places for the people living in the rich and highly populated neighboring plains. Still in the Islamic period, this is where al-Muqanna took refuge 5 Coloru 2009: 139–142; Plischke 2014: 174–178. Oxyartes, father of Roxana and satrap of the Paropamisadae under Alexander, may also have minted coins on his own name, along with other satraps such as Stasanor: Košelenko 2006, Atakhodjaev 2013: 220–222. 6 Holt 1989: 52–69; Bosworth 1993: 104–119; Briant 2012: 54–63. 7 Quintus Curtius 7.9.22; Arrian 4.6.5. 8 Quintus Curtius 8.5.1. 9 Briant 1984: 79–80; Holt 1989: 52–53; Bosworth 1993: 107–109. In 329 BCE, Alexander reached the Syr-Darya River without encountering any resistance. Regarding the chronology of Alexander’s operations in Central Asia and the road he followed, Claude Rapin’s publications provide the most up-to-date research with several new assumptions (for instance the location of Zariaspa at Samarkand and not at Bactra as usually thought): Rapin 2013; Rapin 2017: 96–103; Rapin 2018: 287–292. See his works for the earlier bibliography, in particular Rtveladze 2002, Rtveladze 2007 and Sverchkov 2013: 122–150.

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Fig. 2: Hellenistic Bactria and Sogdiana

after revolting against the Abbasid power between 776 and 780 CE. 10 The historians of Alexander mention several fortresses held by rebels in these mountains, and recent researches were carried out to attempt to locate them. 11 A cursory reading of the sources might suggest that these fortresses were controlled by local rulers acting in their private capacity, however, these men actually submitted to the Achaemenid kings and held administrative functions. Arrian calls several of them hyparch, 12 while Curtius prefers using the term satrap. 13 Chorienes was in charge of Pareitacae (Arrian 4.21.1), Sisimithres controlled Nautaca and the surrounding area (Curtius 8.2.19), and Arimazes was probably the governor of Oxiana, that is the Sherabad-Darya

10 11 12 13

Karev 2015: 197–201. Rapin 2013; Rapin 2017; Rapin 2018. Arrian 4.21.1; see also 4.1.5. Quintus Curtius 8.2.19 (Sisimithres) and 8.4.21–22 (Oxyartes).

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Greek Power in Hellenistic Bactria: Control and Resistance

Fig. 3: The Hissar Mountains and neighboring plains

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province (Fig. 3). 14 Chorienes and Sisimithres owned one or several mountain fortresses, where they had accumulated amounts of food supplies to ensure that they could sustain a long siege, and which provide safe shelter for the surrounding populations. 15 The first rock to be captured by Alexander, probably early in the spring of 328, was held by Chorienes and can be located on the Kyzkurgan hill, near the village of Sina, 45 km to the northeast of Baysun (upper Surkhan-Darya region). Then, Alexander moved toward the area of Baysun in order to reach Nautaca (Kashka-Darya valley) through the Iron Gates. He sized there a second stronghold, which was under the control of Arimazes, the hyparch of Oxiana, and which was possibly located on the Mount Sarymas (north of Derbent). The capture of the third rock, defended by Sisimithres, occurred several months later, at the end of 328 BCE. It was situated near Akrabat, 20 km to the north-west of Derbent, on the Kapkagly-auzy Mount. 16 Pierre Briant has shown that these hyparchs were local aristocrats who possessed extensive territories providing them with significant incomes, and who were able to recruit armies composed of peasants working on their lands. But they were part of the complex system of power relationships, which compounded the Achaemenid Empire, and played a prominent role to ensure its proper functioning, operating within the imperial framework. The troops they provided to the kings were raised according to a system of conscription known elsewhere in the empire. 17 Alexander reoccupied these forts and created a network of new foundations (see below), increasing the military presence in these mountains. He was thus able to better control the movements of population, secure the mountains themselves and prevent that rebels settle back there. When they learned of Alexander’s death, the colonists and the soldiers he had left in Bactria and Sogdiana rose up to go back home. According to Diodorus, there were at least 23,000, 18 a very important number which shows how difficult it was to conquer the region and control it over a long time. This observation raises the issue of the required means to impose a foreign domination on restive Central Asian populations, furthermore if this domination was a foreign one, 19 The human and financial costs the kings had to support were substantial and they did not adopt the same policy once the conquest had been achieved. Different Systems of Power: between Direct and Indirect Rule Alexander’s presence was very short and he probably left the country in 327 BCE without having received the complete submission of local population. He acted in Central Asia as 14 15 16 17 18

Rapin 2018: 275–277. Briant 1984: 81–82. For the location of the rocks and the chronology: Rapin 2013: 64–78; Rapin 2018. Briant 1984: 81–88; Briant 2002: 748–751. Diodorus 18.7. These soldiers and settlers had already revolted in 325: Diodorus 17.99.5–6; Quintus Curtius 9.7.1–11. Holt 1989: 82–86; Coloru 2009: 130–134. 19 This is the central issue of Holt 2005.

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he did in other parts of his empire, taking over the Achaemenid system of domination. He succeeded in transferring on his own person the complex system of personal relationships that had ensured the stability of the former Achaemenid Empire. The Great Kings gave the members of the Persian aristocracy honors and economic privileges in exchange for their service and absolute loyalty. This is what P. Briant has called the “Dynastic Pact”. As the position of Darius III became increasingly weaker after the repetition of defeats and territorial losses, the Persian aristocrats preferred to turn to Alexander in order to maintain their prestigious position. 20 Thus, Alexander could rely upon Persian or local leaders who accepted to enter his service, for example Artabazes who became satrap of Bactria. 21 Sisimithres and Oxyartes were maintained in their former position, but their sons had to serve under Alexander’s command. 22 Later on, Oxyartes became the father-in-law of Alexander who married his daughter Roxana, and a senior officer in the new system of power. He was even appointed satrap of the Paropamisadae region in 325. 23 Furthermore, Alexander did not change the Achaemenid administrative practices as evidenced by one document dated to his seventh regnal year (324 BCE) coming from a recently discovered set of archives connected with the satraps of Bactria and their administration. This is the later text of this collection, which includes 30 documents written on leather and 18 other ones inscribed on wooden sticks, the earlier of which is dated to 353 BCE. This text is written in Aramaic and in the same administrative form than the other ones. It seems to be an extract from a ledger of disbursements made during three months (Sivan, Tammuz and Ab, that is June-August), which records allocations of rations of wine and cereals (millet, wheat and barley) to officials and servants. The procedures, the titles of office, the calendar and the units of measurement are so characteristic of an Achaemenid administration, that it would be impossible to assign the document to the reign of Alexander if the date was not given in the first line. 24 Alexander chose to impose a system of direct rule, supported by a large occupying force. The local communities were submitted to him, controlled and administered by a hierarchy of civil and military officers he had appointed himself, and the members of the local elites were part of it. Some territorial reorganization and population transfers may have occurred however, due to the foundation of new settlements endowed with territories and an agricultural labor force. Alexandria Eschate was for instance founded on the edge of Alexander’s empire in order to watch over the nomads who lived on the other side of the Iaxartes River, the present-day Syr-Darya. It replaced seven Achaemenid settlements that had been founded by Cyrus for the same purpose, including Cyropolis which was the main one. Alexander settled there veterans or wounded Macedonians soldiers, along with Greek mercenaries and indigenous people who were volunteers according to Arrien (4.4.1). This is actually unlikely. Rather, they were natives who had survived 20 21 22 23 24

Briant 2002: 859–870. Quintus Curtius 7.5.1; Arrian 3.29.1. Quintus Curtius 8.2.32–33 and 8.4.21; Arrian 4.21.9. Quintus Curtius 9.8.10; Arrian 6.15.3. Naveh & Shaked 2012: no. C4, 21, 26–27, 199–212.

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Alexander’s attacks and were assigned to the colonists and the soldiers of the occupying army. 25 In both colonies and fortresses, the natives provided supplies, served as ploughmen, and many had dependent status. However, this system of domination was imposed by foreign conquerors of Greek culture, while the Achaemenids had shared common cultural characteristics with the Central Asian population. The first Seleucid kings, namely Seleucus I and Antiochus I, followed in the footsteps of Alexander and apparently adopted the same kind of political organization. They chose to impose a system of direct rule, while nevertheless introducing some change. They probably tried to adapt their military and administrative forces to the means at their disposal and to the situation they found on the ground. Antiochus played the most significant role, as co-regent (294–281 BCE) and then as king (281–261 BCE). Even if we have no evidence of this, we can imagine that he benefited from local support as he was Bactrian through his mother Apama. 26 He reconstructed an administrative and military structure, and established new foundations. 27 This policy seems to have been very expensive considering the large amounts of coinage he minted, first in Bactra, then probably in Ai Khanum. Nearly a third of the bronze coins found during the excavations of this town were issued under his reign. 28 Five bronze coins minted by an Antiochos suggest that a small mint was even opened in Maracanda to pay the soldiers who were garrisoned there. 29 The size of his coinage, necessary to fund the foundations and to ensure the maintaining of huge military forces, highlights the size of the Seleucid investment in Bactria. The involvement of Antiochus I may have resulted in the recovery and refounding of Alexander’s colonies that had collapsed. Pliny has referred to Antioch in Margiana (HN 6.46–48), which would have succeeded an Alexandria in Margiana, 30 and to a Heracleia which became an Achais. 31 But we do not have any evidence to support these assertions and caution is required. 32 However, territorial reconfigurations took place. As early as 305–303 BCE, Seleucus I withdrew from the territories located south of the Hindu Kush mountains, namely from Arachosia, which he had given up to the Maurya king Chandragupta with whom he had an agreement. 33 Moreover, Seleucid domination seems to have been very light in Drangiana and Aria, where it left almost no trace. These regions are poorly explored yet, and we have a limited view of their actual situation. But very little Seleucid coins from the antiquity market come from there, which is significant. These sa25 26 27 28 29

30 31 32 33

Quintius Curtius 7.6.27; Justin 12.5.12. Ramsey 2016: 88–97. Coloru 2009: 146–153; Plischke 2014: 195–201. Bernard 1985: 7; Martinez-Sève 2015: 27–30. Atakhodjaev 2013: no. 42–45, 233–240 and 246. Four coins come from Samarkand and the last one from Durmen-tepe, about 20 km away. According to A. Atakhodjaev, they were struck by Antiochus III, but an attribution to Antiochus I is preferred: see Atakhodjaev 2013, footnote 65 written by F. Grenet after discussion with O. Bopearachchi and F. Holt, and also Naymark 2014: 17–19. Fraser 1996: 31, 117–118; Cohen 2013: 244–247. Cohen 2013: 274–276. C. Rapin has located this Heracleia in Media (Rapin 2017: 63, see also 73). Fraser 1996: 34–40. Capdetrey 2007: 43–50; Coloru 2009: 142–146; Plischke 2014: 181–187; Kosmin 2014: 32–37.

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trapies did not constitute a priority area for the Seleucid power. The Seleucid kings rather focused on territories located north of the Hindu Kush, wealthier and more populated than those located south of these mountains. In Margiana, where Alexander had probably never gone, 34 they founded an Antioch, which became the main town of this oasis and the seat of the administration of the satrapy. But the greatest efforts were concentrated in Bactria and Sogdiana. In Bactria, they organized the territorial control through two main royal towns, Bactra (west) and the new-founded Ai Khanum (east), whereas Bactra was the only one during the Achaemenid period. This is another change compared to the previous situation. New research has shown that Antiochus I was the real founder of the town of Ai Khanum, which was planned to be a royal residence and the Seleucid seat of power in eastern Bactria. 35 Thus, the control over Bactria was more firmly secured than under the Achaemenids or Alexander. The policy of the Seleucid kings seems to have changed after the reign of Antiochus I. The process leading to the creation of the Graeco-Bactrian kingdom began under his successor, Antiochus II 36 and from this reign, it seems that the kings were far less present than before in Central Asia. Diodotus, the satrap of Bactria, began to mint coins with his own portrait, first leaving the name of Antiochus in the legend, and then replacing it by his own name accompanied by the royal title of basileus. The Seleucid impulse necessary to the construction of the town of Ai Khanum also ceased and the settlement may have retained only a military function. 37 Nothing in the known documentation shows that the city grew and increased in population and the program of construction may have stopped for a while. These changes can be understood in two ways: either as the evidence of the Seleucid kings’ inability to maintain their power in Bactria, or as the evidence of a policy shift leading to the adoption of a more indirect kind of rule. Preference is usually given to the first scenario, but what we tend to interpret as a weakness may have been interpreted differently by the kings themselves. Thus the second scenario can also be considered. We are dependent upon the conceptions of the ancient historians, who did not fully grasp the subtlety of the political relationships, which united the Seleucid kings with their subjects. The Seleucid kingdom was an empire, a space where their power and their hegemony were recognized both by local leaders and communities. In the territories which the kings ruled directly, the Seleucid army and administration operated under their supervision. But the territories in which they ruled indirectly were controlled by regional power-hold-

34 Curtius has stated that Alexander founded several forts around the city of Marginia (7.10.15; 7.11.29). This toponym is often understood as an equivalent of Margiana, where Alexander would have founded one of his Alexandria. Marginia is more likely to be a town, located either in the Baysun oasis, or at the site of the present-day Bandykhan, which was an important regional center of the Surkhan-Darya valley during the Achaemenid period: Cohen 2013: 245–247; Sverchkov 2013: 126–136; Rapin 2013: 47–54; Rapin 2017: 83–85; Rapin 2018: 286–287. For Antioch in Margiana see above no. 30. 35 Martinez-Sève 2015: 28–33, with former bibliography. 36 Chrubasik 2016: 37–45, with former bibliography. 37 Martinez-Sève 2015: 33–35.

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ers, who recognized the sovereignty of the Seleucid kings and formed themselves the relays of their authority. However, the manifestations of this power and hegemony could vary. There was no political uniformity, which is characteristic of empires as recently shown by Jane Burbank and Frederick Cooper. Their works have contributed the rich tradition of Empires studies, which are producing an ever-increasing numbers of publications. 38 The characteristics they have highlighted to define empires in general are particularly suited to the Seleucid Empire. 39 According to them, imperial power was expressed through the combined exercise of direct domination in some parts of the territory and indirect domination in other places. Domination could vary in intensity depending on location and circumstances. Nothing was immutable, and the relationships between the king and local or regional authorities could be renegotiated at any time. The empires that lasted the longest were, in their view, those whose leaders were the most able to combine different forms of power to adapt to local realities and conjuncture. The military expedition led by Antiochus III in the eastern part of his empire between 212 and 205 BCE 40 probably corresponds to a time when these links of power were renegotiated between the king and several dynasts of the periphery of his empire, including Euthydemus I in Bactria. The delegation of authority to local dynasts or kings, far from revealing the weakness of the Seleucid Empire, was rather a structural element of its organization, as B. Chrubasik has recently shown. 41 It was more advantageous and effective for the Seleucid kings to rely on these local power-holders, closer to the populations, who recognized them as legitimate, and able to mobilize military forces to ensure order and security. According to B. Chrubasik, these “vassal” kings also protected the territories against the barbaric threat. 42 This is how Euthydemus I would have presented himself during the negotiations he conducted with Antiochos III in 206 BCE (Polybius 11.34). In fact, to present nomads as a danger to civilization and make Euthydemus a bulwark against barbary is above all a matter of commonplace, and one could consider this passage as the result of a simple rhetorical effect of Polybius or his source, 43 since nomads were a component of Central Asia populations, fully integrated into local societies. Although they could be dangerous for the sedentary people, they were mostly partners, with whom exchanges were constant. 44

38 39 40 41

Lastly, for instance, Ando & Richardson 2017. Burbank & Cooper 2011, especially the introductory chapter. Polybius 10.27–31, 10.48–49, 11.34, 29, 12. Coloru 2009: 179–186; Plischke 2014: 270–274. Chrubasik 2016: 37–45 for Bactria, 48–52 and 57–63 in general. He assumed that Antiochus II could have granted Diodotus the right to mint coins (41–42) and does not exclude that Seleucus II granted Diodotus II the royal title (44). 42 Chrubasik 2016: 52 for Bactria. 43 What B. Chrubasik has himself considered (Chrubasik 2016: 49, footnote 102). See also Coloru 2009: 182–183 and Kosmin 2014: 66–67. 44 Mairs 2013; Mairs 2014: 146–176. A contract mentioning a group of Scythian nomads who seem to receive money is known thanks to a parchment found in northern Afghanistan: Rougemont 2012a: no 93, 250–252 with former bibliography.

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These local power-holders could not compete with the Seleucid kings, because they were much less powerful than them. Carrying the royal title gave them more weight and prestige to act, 45 but at their own level, and this was recognized by the Seleucid kings who were interested in it. This kind of organization therefore benefited both parties. Indirectly controlled territories were situated on the margins of the empire. According to David Engels, the entire northern periphery of the Seleucid Empire was occupied under Antiochus III by “vassal” or “client kings”, to whom the king had conferred the royal title and whom he had integrated into his family by matrimonial ties, in exchange for a tribute and the supply of troops. D. Engels has even used the term “feudalism” to characterize this situation which implies the transfer of a territory to an individual and obligations in return. 46 The fact that these indirectly controlled territories were located in a peripheral position is understandable. The available manpower necessary to impose the Seleucid rule was rather limited, although the kings were able to raise armies of several thousands of soldiers. They could not exercise a strict and direct control over all the spaces they dominated and they probably knew that, as Seleucus I had been aware of his inability to rule the most eastern areas of his empire. In addition, the resources required to rule Bactria directly were probably far beyond those available. Economically, it was not in their interest to do so, because of the cost and difficulty of long-distance transport. Incomes of taxation could only be used locally to finance their domination over Bactria, for the cost of transportation would have been probably roughly equivalent to them. In any way, the Seleucids were regarded as prestigious kings, capable to impose their power to “vassals”, without the need to support troops and an administration in situ, whose main task would have been to collect the taxes necessaries to their own payment. Hence the kings could assign elsewhere this manpower, particularly in the territories under direct rule. After Antiochus I, the Seleucid kings therefore behaved differently from their Achaemenid predecessors. The archives of Bactra indeed highlight the density of the Achaemenid administration in Bactria, which is also suggested for Arachosia by two fragments of tablets found at Kandahar 47 and by several tablets from the Persepolis Fortification Archive. 48 The Achaemenid kings apparently considered it important to be visible throughout their empire, including in peripheral regions, even if the reality of their power is difficult to measure. Their presence and authority were expressed through the staging of an administration at work. They were at the head of a complex and hierarchical administrative network that extended everywhere and embodied their power in a concrete way, 45 Chrubasik 2016: 51–52; this assumption was already made by Schmitt 1964: 89–95. 46 Engels 2011; Engels 2014, especially 65–75; Engels 2017, chapters 2 and 9. 47 Fisher & Stolper 2015; Henkelman 2017. Observing that material culture had been weakly impacted by the Achaemenid domination in Bactria, some researchers assumed that the region was not really integrated into the empire and that a local independent power might even have arisen there. See on this subject the reflections of P. Briant, who has always considered that Bactria was not treated differently from the other regions of the Achaemenid Empire: Briant 1984: 57–68; Briant 2002: 752–754. The documents recently published by Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked confirm this with force. 48 Henkelman 2017: 150–169.

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which W. Henkelman has recently showed in great detail. 49 Their prestige derived from their ability to levy tributes and administrate the empire’s revenues through this administration, 50 while the prestige and glory of the Seleucid kings were derived from their ability to win military victories. 51 The Achaemenid kings chose to integrate the local power-holders into a system of direct domination, using for their own benefit the networks of relations that these individuals controlled. But the satraps, who governed the various regional entities, retained the reality of power, while being closely subject to imperial rule. 52 They belonged to a group of large families who formed the Persian aristocracy and occasionally had family ties with the kings. They were also established locally, since they benefited from the income derived from properties, which the kings had allocated to them. These satraps themselves had very extensive networks of relationships. The strength of the empire thus rested on the closeness between the kings and their satraps, who had the same kind of relations with their own subordinates and were endeavoring to obtain absolute fidelity from them. The position of the satraps and their families within the Persian aristocracy was entirely contingent upon their loyalty to the king and the charges their held within the empire. Their position was far too strong for the king to rule them out easily. But a revolting satrap endangered his personal position, that of his whole family and clan. It was therefore extremely risky and he had little incentive to do so, especially since there was a strong social pressure to remain faithful. It is therefore unlikely that the “feudalism” of the Seleucid period had its roots in the Achaemenid Empire, as D. Engels has thought, 53 because satraps were not autonomous powers, except under exceptional circumstances. The situation was thus very different after the reign of Antiochus I. From the moment that the control was exercised indirectly, the Seleucid administration and the Seleucid army were not present anymore in Bactria. Between the reign of Antiochus II (261–246 BCE) and the Anabasis, the military expedition of Antiochus III (208–206 BCE), Bactria may have been part of the Seleucid Empire, while being under the supervision of the first Graeco-Bactrian rulers Diodotus I and Diodotus II, and then Euthydemus I who took the power around 225 BCE after he overthrew Diodotus II. The colonists and the troops settled in Bactria by the first Seleucid kings came under their control. The loyalty of the Graeco-Bactrian kings to the Seleucid kings was probably fluctuating, changing according to the circumstances. No document allows to ascertain that the Seleucid kings preferred to exercise this indirect domination. But the expedition led by Seleucus II in 228–227 into Parthia, where he was defeated by Arsakes II, 54 then the 49 Henkelman 2017: 169–172. See more generally Jacobs et al. 2017, which presents several examples of the articulation between imperial and local administrations. Unfortunately, this book was published too late to be fully used in my own contribution. 50 As we can see on the so-called “tribute friezes” decorating the staircases of the palaces at Persepolis. 51 Virgilio 1999; Muccioli 2013. The Seleucid royal ideology evolved over time, but it does not seem that the Seleucid kings sought to enhance their ability as administrators. 52 Briant 2002: 338–347. 53 Engels 2014: 65–75. 54 Justin 41.4.9–5.1. Plischke 2014: 236–239.

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Anabasis of Antiochos III, who was present in Central Asia between 209 and 205 BCE, reveal that the Seleucid kings always considered to have rights over this part of their empire. In reality, this kind of domination was not the result of a royal decision, but of an existing situation enjoyed by both the Graeco-Bactrian and the Seleucid kings. The maintenance of the Seleucid Empire was achieved only by finding a balance between the interests of the local authorities and those of the kings. The kings subjugated vast territories, over which they exercised authority and sovereignty, and gained prestige. 55 The local power-holders strengthened their position within their own territory, since their power was guaranteed and recognized by a higher authority that ensured their legitimacy. They, too, gained prestige and enrichment by levying tribute upon populations that could not count on political weakening to rebel. When the Seleucid king was occupied for a long time in distant regions, their position became stronger and more autonomous. They were even independent in fact, but they had to submit when he returned. Euthydemus I successfully challenged the power of Antiochus III in 208–206 BCE, bringing out a change in this situation to his own benefit. He is the real founder of an independent Graeco-Bactrian Kingdom. It is true and that the peace he concluded in 206 BCE with Antiochus III endorsed a new status quo. Antiochus recognized Euthydemus as king, but only as a vassal king, gave his daughter to Euthydemus’ son, Demetrius, and imposed a heavy tribute. 56 But it took two years to reach this agreement, following resistance from Euthydemus, while in Armenia and Parthia, Antiochus had reached the same result much more quickly before entering into Bactria. 57 We can infer that Euthydemus did not want to submit at first and tried to free Bactria from Seleucid domination presumably because Antiochus III was the last Seleucid kings to come in Bactria. But Antiochus III had always considered the Graeco-Bactrian kings to be under his supervision. The exercise of an indirect rule expresses the ability of the Seleucid kings to adapt their resources to local conditions. Many other parts of their empire were ruled in this way as we saw previously. However, generally, they relied on local power-holders coming from these very same territories or descending from Iranian ancestors, for example Ariarathes in Cappadocia (Diodorus 31.19b), Orontes in Armenia (Strabo 11.14.15) 58 or Arsakes in Parthia (Strabo 11.9.2). In Bactria however, the Graeco-Bactrians kings appeared as Greek kings, originating in a Greek colonial environment. Euthydemus himself came from a Magnesia (Polybius 11.34.1). This unusual situation raises interesting questions about the statute of Greek culture in Central Asia and the level of integration of the local elites and their position within the new kingdom. Unfortunately, our documentation is very scarce and we face many difficulties. Some people with Iranian names are quoted in a few inscriptions, but we do not know who they are and whether they were members of the elites. Several are attested in Ai Khanum, including six who were officials in charge 55 According to Chrubasik 2016: 51, the very fact of being in a position to concede the royal title to Euthydemus I may have increased the prestige of Antiochus III. 56 Polybius 11.34. 57 Polybius 8.23.1 (Armenia; see also Traina 2017); Polybius 10.27–31, Justin 41.5.7 (Parthia). 58 Traina 2017.

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of the administration of the Palace treasury. 59 We also know Atrosokes, who consecrated to the God Oxus a small statuette depicting a Silenus. 60 The only individual known in some details is Sophytus, who composed for himself a funeral epigram, but he was an Indian coming from Arachosia and not from Bactria and the text is difficult to date. 61 He provides information about his family of wealthy merchants, who had misfortunes, and tells how he was able to recover his fortune. The text is in elegiac couplets, and Sophytus wrote that he was himself a scholar, trained in Greek poetry. The number of Greek settlers and their descendants should not be overestimated however. They probably formed only a part of the ruling elite, which gave to the local aristocrats the possibility to find a place and to maintain their high social position. But to succeed, they had to adopt more than elsewhere the practices and codes imposed by Greek culture (see below). The Markers of Greek Domination Ai Khanum is probably the most visible symbol of Greek domination, at least for us. The town was built and developed chiefly during the first half of the 2nd century BCE, when it became one of the main Graeco-Bactrian royal residences. The city we know of is later in date, from the last years of the reign of Eucratides I. 62 The Greek kings also created a network of military settlements designed to ensure the protection of Bactria and Sogdiana against potential external enemies, but also probably against the local population. They were located to monitor crossing points through mountains or rivers. In Sogdiana, all the known settlements seem to have had a predominantly military function. 63 We can quote the two important Achaemenid towns of Koktepe and Maracanda, which became two military centers during the Hellenistic period. Koktepe was situated 30 km north of Samarkand, near the boundary and contact area between nomads and sedentary populations. The settlement was occupied under Alexander and during the first decades of the 3rd century, probably by soldiers living in barracks. 64 They aimed to control this border area. Maracanda remained a more important city, at the head of a vast oasis, and was probably the capital of Sogdiana. The ramparts and a monumental granary are the only monuments from the Greek period we know of, with the ancient Achaemenid citadel which was still operating. The Achaemenid fortifications were first repaired, perhaps still under Alexander if one believes the size of the bricks used to rebuild a section damaged during the siege that the Macedonian king had inflicted on 59 Grenet 1983; Rougemont 2012a: no. 101–103, 106 (?), 121, 124, 139, 142. 60 Rougemont 2012a: no. 95. 61 Rougemont 2012a: no. 84; Mairs 2014: 106–117. This epigram can have been written between 200 BCE (if not earlier) and 100 CE. 62 Martinez-Sève 2013a; Martinez-Sève 2014; Martinez-Sève 2015. 63 Rapin & Khasanov 2016: 63–64. 64 Rapin 2007: 42–44. For the pottery and its date in the reigns of Alexander and the first Seleucid kings: Lyonnet 2012: 167–169.

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the city. 65 Then, they were replaced by new ones all around the site. The new fortifications exhibited an internal corridor, within which the soldiers of the garrison were housed, since remains of straw bedding were discovered there likely. 66 The granary was situated almost at the center of the upper town, beneath the remains of the first great mosque. Eight rooms of this monumental building have been identified, and three of them widely excavated (Fig. 4). 67 The building was organized according a very regular layout, each room measuring 11.50 m long and 5.50 m large. It was destroyed by a fire which burnt the supplies. Scientific analysis showed that the building contained millet and barley, namely the same kind of cereals that those mentioned in the Achaemenid documents of Bactra. It was possible to store huge quantities of grain there, around 75 tons at most. The size and the monumental aspect of this building suggest that it was a public edifice, in which the supply of the Greek garrison was stored. These grains were probably obtained through tax levies imposed on the neighboring populations and this building was probably a kind of royal treasury. According to the size of its bricks, similar to those used to repair the destructions caused by Alexander’s attack on the Achaemenid rampart, it can be dated to the beginning of the Hellenistic period. Our current knowledge suggests that Maracanda was not a real town, inhabited by civilian settlers. It was rather a huge fortress, with garrisoned Seleucid troops, whose task was to control northern Sogdiana. This situation appears to have lasted until the reign of Diodotus I, that is, earlier than previously thought. 68 Other settlements were established along the road leading to Bactria which crosses several mountains. A small Hellenistic fort was recently excavated by an Italian team in Sazagan, 25 km southwest of Samarkand on the foothills of the Zeravshan Mountains, near the road leading to the Kashka-Darya valley. 69 Other forts were identified in the Hissar Mountains and on their eastern foothills, for example at Payon Kurgan, located about 5 km south to the current town of Baysun. This was a military settlement from the Kushan period, but pottery dated to the end of the 4th century and the beginning of the 3rd century BCE was discovered in a deep trench dug in the south part of the site, which suggests a date of foundation during the reign of Alexander the Great or Seleucus I. 70 Payon Kurgan was probably similar to another settlement, Kurganzol, recently excavated by an Uzbeko-German team some 7 km southward. These two forts may have been related to the town of Marginia, where Alexander stopped in the spring of 328 BCE. He established a network of six fortresses around this city, including perhaps those of Payon Kurgan and Kurganzol, and deported there defeated local populations who were assigned to soldiers and served them as slaves or dependants. 71 The situation of this Marginia remains uncer65 Bernard 1996: 348–353. 66 Chichkina 1986; Rapin & Isamiddinov 1994. For the pottery and the chronology, which was reviewed: Lyonnet 2012: 159–167; Lyonnet 2013: 362–366; Rapin & Khasanov 2016: 66–67. 67 Baratin & Martinez-Sève 2013a. 68 Rapin & Khasanov 2016: 66–67. 69 Rapin & Khasanov 2016: 64. 70 Abdullaev 2001: 28–29. 71 Quintus Curtius 7.10.15, 7.11.29. These are probably the same establishments than those mentioned by Arrian (4.16.3) and located in Sogdiana.

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Fig. 4: Afrasiab / Maracanda, plan of the Greek granary and Islamic constructions

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tain. Leonid Sverchkov located it at Bandikhan (north-east of the Sherabad-Darya valley), which was an important regional town during the Achaemenid period. 72 Claude Rapin has preferred a position near Baysun, because this is more in line with the road taken by Alexander. 73 These two forts protected one of the roads that connected the south and the north of Sogdiana, passing through the Sherabad-Darya valley and Bandikhan, then Baysun, and from there to Derbent and the Iron Gates, which enable the crossing of the Hissar Mountains. 74 Kurganzol is situated near the present village of Kofrun, and was standing in a dominant position. It took the form of a circular wall 30 m in diameter, reinforced by six  semi-circular towers. Some constructions had been built inside the walls to house about twenty soldiers. They were provided with domestic equipment, numerous jars of storage for food supplies, and a cistern. A bathtub strongly suggests that the people garrisoned there were Greeks, because bathing was a characteristic feature of the Greek presence in Central Asia. According to the excavators, the fort was built under Alexander and operated only for a few decades. 75 Two other sites are in the Hissar range. A military construction was first excavated by Claude Rapin and Shajmardankul Rakhmanov near the current village of Derbent, at the Iron Gates which command the main pass allowing to cross these mountains through a succession of deep canyons. The excavations revealed the presence of a powerful wall, built under the Graeco-Bactrian kings to block the pass. Several pottery sherds collected are typical of ceramic period IV of Ai Khanum, which shows that the wall was in use during the first half of the 2nd century BCE to monitor and control movements towards or from the Surkhan-Darya valley. 76 This installation belonged to a larger military complex (Fig. 5). A second fortress located at Kapchigay just north-east of Derbent controlled a secondary road through the Machay-Darya valley, the headwaters of the Sherabad-Darya river. This difficult mountain route passed through the Hissar range and made it possible to reach the high Kahska-Darya valley to the west and the Sangardak-Darya valley to the east, and from there the upper Surkhan-Darya valley. This second fortress thus controlled access to the Iron Gates from the north. It was not excavated, but Hellenistic ceramics from the 3rd and 2nd centuries were found during survey operations. 77 A third fortress, which is being excavated under the direction of Nigora Dvurechenskaja, was recognized about 10 km south of the Iron Gates at Uzundara. 78 It controlled a secondary pass that 72 73 74 75 76

Sverchkov 2013: 134. Rapin 2013; Rapin 2018: 286–287. Sverchkov 2008: fig. 1. Sverchkov 2008; Sverchkov 2013 with a new chronology. Rapin et al. 2005: 102 (especially for ceramic), fig. 3; Rapin 2007: 10–11. The corrections made to the chronology of Ai Khanum imply lowering the date given in these publications. 77 Sverchkov 2005: 13–14; Sverchkov 2008: 143–144. The closest parallels for this ceramic are provided by the pottery from Termez dated to the time of Euthydemus I. 78 It has been known since 1991 thanks to surveys carried out by E. Rtveladze, but excavated only since 2013. See in particular the descriptions in Rtveladze 2002: 96–105, Sverchkov 2005: 11 and Rtveladze 2007: 179.

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Fig. 5: Map of the Iron Gates area

enabled to circumvent the Iron Gates. 79 This is a powerful military monument with stone walls defended by rectangular towers and a bastion protecting several buildings. 80 The excavators uncovered a rich source of materials, including 2 tons of ceramics, weapons, and coins, 81 a large proportion of which were struck by Euthydemus I. 82 This king seems

79 Rapin et al. 2005: 107. 80 Dvurechenskaja 2015. 81 For coins: Rtveladze et al. 2014; Dvurechenskaja/Gorin/Shejko 2016; Dvurechenskaja/Gorin/Shejko 2017. 82 Dvurechenskaja/Gorin/Shejko 2016: no. 1–7 and 10–16; Dvurechenskaja/Gorin/Shejko 2017: no. 2–13 and 27–39.

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to have been particularly involved in the construction of the fortress or at least in its reinforcement, since it may have existed under his predecessors. According to the Russian excavators, he wanted to protect his possessions from the pressure exerted by nomads on the northern border of the kingdom, especially since northern Sogdiana had been lost. 83 However, Euthydemus must have sought to strengthen the defenses of his kingdom, regardless the state of his relations with nomadic populations. Another line of military settlements was located along the Amu-Darya and its tributaries. Their role was to control the crossing of the rivers together with the roads following the valleys. Ai Khanum, located on the left bank of the Darya-i Pandj, the former Ochus, 84 at the confluence with the river Kokcha, was probably one of them during the 3rd century. The city occupied a strategic position commanding access to the routes that followed the valleys of the Kokcha, the Darya-i Panj and the Kizil-Su, a tributary on the right bank that flows into the Darya-i Pandj 10 km upstream of Ai Khanum. The city was thus at a crossroad of regional and inter-regional communications, used by merchants as well as nomadic and mountain populations, who were at once partners and potential adversaries needing to be watched. 85 The Kizil-Su valley formed the first potential invasion corridor once the mountains were crossed via the upper Wakhsh valley. The town was also located where the Darya-i Pandj valley narrowed, near a ford to cross the river. This ford was perhaps borrowed by Alexander the Great during his spring campaign in 328 BCE. 86 Before the Greeks settled there, the passage of the river was watched over by the fortress of Kohna Qala, situated 1.5 km upstream from Ai Khanum. This settlement was semi-circular in layout and protected by two lines of ramparts and covered an area of about 25 ha. It has not been excavated, but the surface material shows that it was occupied from the Achaemenid period until the 8th century CE. 87 Before the foundation of Ai Khanum, Kohna Qala was the largest site and probably the place from which the Achaemenid authority exercised its control over the plain. Ai Khanum was founded to be a royal city but it does not appear that the initiatives taken under Antiochus I were fully implemented. The pottery from this time-period was largely undecorated and the vases were simple in form and varied little, suggesting that the population was small in size and probably made up primarily of soldiers. The city essentially housed a garrison. 88 Termez had probably the same function at the time of its foundation, probably under the name of Antiocheia Tarmita, during the Seleucid period. Greek levels were identified at the citadel, 15 m beneath the ground surface, but over a limited area only, which leads P. Leriche to conclude that it was at first a phrourion built on high rocks at a place where 83 84 85 86 87 88

Sverchkov 2008: 187; Rtveladze et al. 2014: 156. And not the former Oxus as usually thought: Grenet & Rapin 2001: 80. Bernard 1978a: 14–15. Rapin 2013: 46–54; Martinez-Sève 2015: 21–26. Bernard 1978a: 15; Gardin 1998: 42, 45–46. Lyonnet 2012: 158–159. According to Bertille Lyonnet, this applies to the city at the time of Antiochus I. But as she considers that the ceramics of periods I, II and III form the same set and that the real change occurred only in period IV (Lyonnet 2012: 147), the comment should also be applicable to the following decades.

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the crossing of the river was easier due to the existence of the large Aral-Paigambar Island. 89 However, no architectural remains dating back to that time have been found. A fortress was also built in Kampyr-tepe situated 30 km downstream, west of Termez. It was founded in the 3rd century BCE, probably by the Seleucid kings under the name of Pandocheion, which was then preserved in the toponymy of the region. 90 Although the site has been extensively excavated, the oldest levels are not well known. But recent excavations have revealed a major construction from the early Hellenistic period located near port infrastructures. 91 The ford at Kampyr-tepe replaced an older one in operation during the Achaemenid period and located at Shor-tepe, about 500 m to the west, where a small settlement consisting of a citadel and an inhabited area was identified. This is probably where Alexander the Great crossed the Oxus River in 329 BCE and that the main road between Bactra and Sogdiana passed through. 92 Other forts may have punctuated the road along the Amu-Darya River and controlled its crossing points, for example at Kelif, some 60 km west of Termez, Kerki (now Atamyrat in Turkmenistan) where Achaemenid material was recognized, and Mirzabek near the current settlement of Mukry, on the other bank of the river. A lot of Graeco-Bactrian ceramic was found on that site, which covered about 4 ha. 93 As we can see, all of these settlements do not date from the same period. Some are from the time of Alexander or the first Seleucid kings, others are later and Graeco-Bactrian in date. But apart from Maracanda and Koktepe, which were important Sogdian towns under the Achaemenid kings, they were all new and founded by Greek kings. This may bring to light a shift in the defensive conceptions of these new powers, and the emergence of new threats. It should not be concluded however, that the Achaemenid kings had lost interest in military protection of the territory. The documents from the Bactrian archives show that the subordinates of the satrap were responsible for the territorial defense, since one of them, Bagavant, was charged with building fortifications in two cities of Sogdiana, Nikhshapaya (Xennipa/Nakhshab/Karshi) and Kish (Nautaca/Shahr-i Sabz). 94 Greek culture was another marker of Greek domination, which was adopted by the members of the elites whether of Greek or local origin. It was a social marker, an instrument of power that allowed them to distinguish themselves and to recognize one another in a highly hierarchical society. 95 They adopted very discriminatory practices for the local population. The inhabitants of Ai Khanum, and more generally all the people living in the Hellenistic East who wanted to display their knowledge of Greek culture, always favored a scholarly education. 96 They created erudite poetry, with Homeric allusions, using elaborate versification. The verses engraved on a stela by one Heliodotus, a Graeco-Bactrian officer, to dedicate an altar to the goddess Hestia for the kings’ salute near the current 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96

Leriche 2001: 94–95; Rtveladze 2002: 39–43; Rtveladze 2007: 160–161. Rtveladze 2002: 46–53; Rtveladze 2007: 162–164. Dvurechenskaja 2012: 71–74; Dvurechenskaja 2016: 67. Rtveladze 2002: 66; Rtveladze 2007: 165–167, 169; Rapin 2018: 282–283. Pilipko 1985: 47–51, 77–78, 177–178. Naveh & Shaked 2012: no. A4 (348–347 BCE), no. A5 (undated), and 24–25. Martinez-Sève 2016. Rougemont 2012b; Rougemont 2014; Mairs 2014: 136–139.

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city of Kuliab (Tadjikistan), north of Ai Khanum, make this point: they were trochaic tetrameters, a very unusual verse form for Hellenistic epigrams, but more frequently used during the classical period. 97 The attachment of Ai Khanum’s inhabitants to the purity of Hellenism, and their desire to transmit it in this form, are obvious in view of the famous inscription known as the “Maxims of Clearchus”, erected inside the Kineas Heroon precinct (Fig. 6). 98 These well-known aphorisms specified the main qualities a Greek man should display and were, in a certain way, a definition of Greek identity. The Heroon of Kineas, which housed the grave of the founder, was an official building with a highly symbolic value, embodying the birth of the settler community and the first period of its collective history. We can hypothesize that these maxims were erected as part of an official project, intended to endorse the claim for Hellenism in the city’s foundation process. The first settlers announced that they were bound together through the sharing of core values, which were constitutive of their identity and which distinguished them from other populations. 99 Nudity, body care, and physical training were other exclusionary practices in Central Asia. In Ai Khanum, the number of excavated bathrooms and water-supply installations is astonishing. The houses of the wealthy all had such facilities, and collective baths were also found in the palace and in the gymnasium areas. 100 A bathroom was even found in a rustic farmhouse excavated in the city’s territory. 101 Nudity, which was mandatory when training in the gymnasium or when bathing, entailed a distinctive relationship with one’s body, that was specific to Greek people and shocking for Iranians, at least those who were still tied to traditional ideas prohibiting them to reveal their bodies. Seeking corporeal beauty had always been a concern for the Greek elites, and exhibiting a beautiful body a marker of social distinction. We are thus faced with the apparent contradiction between the attachment to the purity of Hellenism and the mixing of local cultures. In actual fact, this contradiction is not what it seems. What we observe here, in fact, is a good example of the theories of Frederik Barth, based on a clear distinction between culture (taken in its broadest sense) and the population’s cultural identity. 102 This cultural identity is determined by identifying marks, moral values, and behavioral rules that are adopted by a specific group in order to differentiate itself from neighboring groups and to maintain a clear boundary between them. Such groups may share the same or similar culture, but they will select different features to distinguish themselves. When boundaries are not erased over time, even if these human groups remain in contact, we can infer that they themselves wanted to maintain this mutual opposition, because it helped structure their organization and because it is a basic aspect of their identity. 97 98 99 100

Rougemont 2012a: no. 151. Rougemont 2012a: no. 97. Martinez-Sève 2015: 32–33. See also Mairs 2014 b. Bernard 1971: 389–402; Veuve 1987: 107–108; Lecuyot 2013: 6, 30–34, 40–41, 47–48, 59, 76–77, 85–87, 108. 101 Francfort 2013: 163. 102 Barth 1969: 9–38.

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Fig. 6: Ai Khanum. Plan of the central area

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The people living in Bactria shared a common mixed culture, 103 but the elites and kings adopted and promoted what they considered to be the most typical practices of Greek culture in order to distinguish themselves from other people, even if these practices were artificial and far from contemporaneous reality. This phenomenon is well observed at Ai Khanum and was present since the colony was founded, as is shown by the display of Delphic maxims inside the Kineas Heroon. It was even part of the foundation process, if we accept that this building was the founder’s grave. It was still present around the middle of the 2rd century BCE. This is when the gymnasium and the theater had been built, near the palace of Eucratides, and probably by this king himself. These two royal monuments intended to express the king’s power and prestige. It is significant that they were clearly related to Greek culture and its transmission. They placed Eucratides on par with other Hellenistic kings and showed that he, like them, was also a protector of Greek arts and culture. This close association between the palace and the most iconic buildings of Greek culture is symbolic of the links connecting this Greek culture to the political power. This cultural boundary was maintained for a long time, and it can thus be inferred that the elites were careful to educate their children according to traditional Greek standards, to maintain their cohesion and, if necessary, to protect themselves against other elements of the population. This cultural boundary was probably combined with a social boundary. Ai Khanum society was non-egalitarian and hierarchical, as is shown by the size of the great aristocratic houses. 104 Intensive farming took place in the neighboring territory, thanks to a large-scale irrigation system inherited from previous centuries, which required a large workforce. 105 However, only the wealthy benefitted from the incomes of such activities and they constituted a very small minority. Their security was based upon cohesion and the sharing of common values. These people were the descendants of the first settlers, along with the Bactrian aristocrats who had agreed to adopt the distinctive customs of the Greek elites. Local Population’s Resistance to Greek Power Unfortunately we do not know how local populations felt about Greek power during the Seleucid period. But the events that took place around 145 BCE at Ai Khanum may be representative of how it was perceived later. If one accepts that the elites were numerically few and in a dominant position of social exploitation, they could be endangered. Besides, the resentment against Greek people may have been strengthened by the way they had imposed themselves at the time of Alexander, even if the conquest had occurred a long time ago. We know how much this kind of feeling continues from generation to generation. In Ai Khanum however, nothing indicates the will to protect oneself against aggressive populations from the neighboring territories. The ramparts were periodically

103 Mairs 2014, especially 98–101 for this mixed culture. 104 Lecuyot 2013. 105 Gardin 1998.

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Fig. 7: Ai Khanum. Sanctuary, general plan

renovated but it seems that sometimes this was not the case and they deteriorated. 106 At the time of Eucratides, population densities were high in the periphery of the city, outside the ramparts in an unprotected area where several large residences were standing, along with gardens, orchards and more modest dwellings. 107 However, Ai Khanum was violently attacked around 145 BCE. The general political situation seems to have been difficult, since Eucratides was murdered by one of his sons (Justin 41.6.5). This contributed to weaken the kingdom. But we do not know precisely when this murder was committed. Several events happened at Ai Khanum. First, the elites who had adopted a Greek way of life disappeared and abandoned their large aristocratic houses. We suppose that these people fled the city, which may be right for some of them. But others may have been killed. About 130 bodies of deceased people were found in the theater, where they had been gathered. Only a third of the building was excavated, so we can assume that they were more numerous. The stratigraphic position of the bones shows that they were placed inside the building shortly after the crisis. We can thus hypothesize that they belonged to the people who died at that time. 108 106 Leriche 1986: 54, 55, 76–77. 107 Gardin 1998: 41–42. 108 Bernard 1978b: 440–441; Grenet in Lecuyot 2014: 66. The excavators first advanced the hypothesis that the building was used for Zoroastrian rites, as a dakhma for excarnation of the bones of deceased people, but then changed their minds.

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Moreover, some of the buildings of the town suffered much more than others. The palace especially may have been attacked and deliberately destroyed and burnt, as shown by the various occurrences of fire that have been detected. 109 This was Paul Bernard’s hypothesis, but we have to consider the possibility that these fires were lit after the events, by the last inhabitants of the town who wanted to recover the upper parts of the building and every material they can reused. 110 The main sanctuary seems to have suffered a similar fate. Several walls located on the eastern aisle of its courtyard, on both sides of the entrance fronting onto the main street of the town, were destroyed and then rebuilt (Fig. 7). At some places, it was even necessary to replace the front wall of the sanctuary, despite its substantial thickness (more than 2 m wide). These reconstructions were not a response to the normal degradation process of the walls, given that they concerned only some of them, which besides were not very old since they had been built only 15 or 20 years before. The main altar of the sanctuary, which looked like a small podium accessible with a staircase and was situated inside the courtyard, near the entrance, was also razed to the ground. The cult statue from the temple was also deliberately toppled and destroyed and the same happened to the cult statue from a secondary chapel of the north aisle of the complex. One foot of the former was found along with several fingers, 111 and perhaps one finger of the latter. The fragments of the statue of the temple were left in disarray inside the building without being ritually collected. As a cult statue is venerable and must be treated with respect, the fragments would have been considered with greater reverence if the removal was unintentional. These destructions were targeted since the other buildings of Ai Khanum remained untouched. Even the ramparts do not show unquestionable signs of destruction contemporaneous with these events. 112 It is usually held that the city was attacked by nomadic people from the northern steppe, and was subsequently reoccupied by squatters. 113 Indeed, the town remained inhabited after these events and probably longer than usually thought. 114 A living quarter grew between the Kineas Heroon and the entrance of the palace; 115 another one extended near the 109 Bernard et al. 2013: 2–3. The propylaea, the hypostyle hall, the rooms no 3, 6 and 9 were burnt, but the fire was stronger in the hypostyle hall and room no 3. 110 Martinez-Sève 2018. Only when the study of the palace has been completed will it be possible to solve the problem. 111 Bernard 1969: 337–341. 112 Traces were mainly observed at the north rampart: a fire burnt the inner face of the wall, some masonries collapsed, and seven arrowheads and spear points were found in later layers (Leriche 1986: 56–57). The section of the “Oxus Rampart” located next to the Palaestra was reconstructed after the erection of the Gymnasium, which remained unfinished at the end of the reign of Eucratides I, and the inner face of the defensive wall close to the fountain was also renovated (Leriche 1986: 27–41). These operations are assigned to the last Greek inhabitants of the town, but dated thanks to ceramic in period VIII, that is after the disappearance of the Graeco-Bactrian power. These reconstruction works may thus have been undertaken to repair destructions caused by an attack against this section of the rampart during the events of 145 BCE. 113 Rapin 1992: 32–35, 287–294; Rapin 2007: 47–64. 114 Martinez-Sève 2018. 115 Bernard 2013.

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sanctuary. 116 The latter remained in use, but the cults were perhaps reorganized and the north chapel became the main place of worship. The other public spaces lost their official character and were systematically privatized and reoccupied, as were the aristocratic residences. 117 The town was converted into a large quarry; wherever possible, stone and metal were methodically recovered from its monuments. 118 The population’s composition clearly changed. It seems likely that nomadic people were involved in these changes, especially the Saka/Sai. The excavators found amongst the remains of the palace a runic inscription engraved on a silver ingot, which may be ascribed to them. 119 But they probably are not responsible for all that occurred in Ai Khanum at that time. Other nomadic group, known under the name of Yuezhi thanks to Chinese sources, established themselves north of the Amu-Darya around 135–130 BCE, after having forced the Saka/Sai to leave from this area, and used to levy tribute on the population living south of this river. 120 But these changes do not seem to have greatly affected the population still living at Ai Khanum. The ceramic shows a great continuity between the time the city was under Greek control, and the time it was not anymore, especially since its inhabitants continued to use ceramics produced in the Graeco-Bactrian period, which they recovered from the houses abandoned by their former owners. Some vases are attributed to the nomads however, handmade bottles and tripod vessels, but nothing allows to connect them with these nomadic groups in a direct and explicit way. Anyway, only five bottles and one tripod vase were found during the excavations of the town, and a few more are coming from eastern Bactria, 121 which is in total very little. More probably, the original local inhabitants of Ai Khanum remained in the town after 145 BCE, continuing to live there for several decades after the departure, or the death, of the Greek elites. The fact that only the sanctuary was truly affected by the attack and perhaps also the palace, which was the most obvious symbol of Greek domination, suggests that what happened was more than a simple nomadic assault. The cult statue, which probably pictured the deity under the appearance of a Zeus, according to the representation of his winged thunderbolt on his sandal, was also a symbolic target. It was related to Greek conceptions of religious practice, and not to local ones. Besides, the sanctuary seems to have been linked to the kings, and royal cults may have been celebrated there. Some statues depicting members of the rich families of the town suffered vandalism too. One was the herm of Strato that had been erected inside the Gymnasium by his two sons, Triballos and Strato. The head was voluntarily cut down and hits were struck to the face, 116 117 118 119 120 121

Martinez-Sève 2013b. Lecuyot 2013: 37–44, 109–134. Martinez-Sève 2018. Rapin 1992: 70–71, 139–142. Thierry 2005: texts no. 15–17; Benjamin 2007: 181–184, 213–214. Lyonnet 1997: 159–161, fig. 48; Gardin 1998: 25, 114; Martinez-Sève 2018. In Ai Khanum, three bottles were found near the sanctuary, other two were in a room adjacent to the east façade of the southwest residence (Lyonnet 1997: fig. 48, no. 1–3; Lyonnet 2013: fig. 90, no. 7; Lecuyot 2013: 60–61), and the unpublished tripod vase was found in the Treasury (I wish to thank Claude Rapin for this information).

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while the rest of the statue remained in its place for a while before being overturned. 122 A funerary stele depicting a nude ephebe that was scattered into pieces (29 of which were found), gives us another example. 123 It does not seem that these destructions can be interpreted as the result of stone recovering activities. The ephebe’s stele was small (50 cm high, 26 cm large) and it would have been easier to carry it to the lime kiln in full (or just fragments in big pieces). The high number of fragments and their small size demonstrated a real relentlessness will of destruction. Thus, we can assume that the local population bears primary responsibility for the attack, and that the latter aimed specifically at the most visible manifestations of Greek domination. Paul Bernard had himself hypothesized that the Graeco-Bactrian kings were faced with a local revolt at Ai Khanum. 124 He had given up this proposal thinking that the kings had the capacity to resist such an event. But, as we saw before, the general context was difficult, especially if the nomadic pressure had grown in the same time. This revolt led to the loss of the eastern part of the Graeco-Bactrian kingdom. The western part was held longer, perhaps until the end of the 2nd century or the beginning of the 1st century, by Greek dynasts, who had to submit to the nomadic powers settled north of the Amu-Darya river. The events seem to have been restricted to Ai Khanum where we can identify a clear break in the history of the city. The same did not occur at Takht-i Sangin for instance. This is understandable, if we admit that Ai Khanum had become a symbolic place for the Graeco-Bactrian power but we know very little about the more general context, and the role of nomads is not clear either. In Bactria and Sogdiana, the forms of imperial Greek domination were thus evolving and adapted to the historical and political context. The forms of imperial Greek domination exhibited a developed military infrastructure that controlled space and communications and it seems that Greek powers were perceived as more oppressive than the Achaemenid. If the Greeks imposed themselves by force, they also imposed their codes and practices, i.e. what we call Greek culture. This was a kind of imperial culture, shared by all those who contributed to impose this power and who benefitted from this situation. This imperial culture disappeared along with the Graeco-Bactrian power which had favored its development. This is the reason why we have the feeling that the Greeks suddenly disappeared from Bactria. Some of them certainly fled and others were killed. But more than people, it was Greek culture that vanished and from 145 BCE onward until the enlightenment of the Kushan state, this culture was no longer a benchmark for the ruling elites.

122 Veuve 1987: 72, 75. 123 Bernard 1972: 623–625. 124 Bernard 1975: 64–65.

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—. 2018. “Ai Khanoum after 145 BC. The Post-palatial Occupation” Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 24: 354-419. Muccioli, F. 2013. Gli epiteti ufficiali dei re ellenistici. Stuttgart. Naveh, J. and Shaked, S. 2012. Aramaic Documents from Ancient Bactria from the Khalili Collections. London. Naymark, A. 2014. “Seleucid coinage of Samarqand?” Journal of the Oriental Numismatic Society 222: 16–20. Pilipko, V.N. 1985. Poselenija Severo-Zapadnoj Baktrii. Ashkabad. Plischke, S. 2014. Die Seleukiden und Iran. Die seleukidische Herrschaftspolitik in den östlichen Satrapien. Wiesbaden. Ramsey, G. 2011. “Seleucid Administration—Effectiveness and Dysfunction Among Officials” In Seleucid Dissolution. The Sinking of the Anchor, edited by Erickson, K. and Ramsey, G., 37–49. Wiesbaden. —. 2016. “The Diplomacy of Seleukid Women: Apama and Stratonike.” In Seleukid Royal Women, edited by Altay, C. and McAuley, A., 87–104. Stuttgart. Rapin, C. 1992. Fouilles d’Aï Khanoum VIII. La trésorerie du palais hellénistique d’Aï Khanoum (Mémoires de la Délégation Archéologique Française en Afghanistan XXXIII). Paris. —. 2007. “Nomads and the Shaping of Central Asia: from the Early Iron Age to the Kushan Period.” In After Alexander. Central Asia before Islam, edited by Cribb, J. and Herrmann, G., 29–72. Oxford. —. 2013. “On the way to Roxane: The Route of Alexander the Great in Bactria and Sogdiana (328–327 BC)” In Zwischen Ost und West. Neue Forschungen zum antiken Zentralasien (Archäologie in Iran und Turan,14), edited by Lindström, G. et al., 43–82. Darmstadt. —. 2017. “Alexandre le Grand en Asie Centrale. Géographie et stratégie de la conquête des Portes Caspiennes à l’Inde” In Moving East and Back to West: With Alexander in India and Central Asia, edited by Antonetti, C. and Biagi, P., 37–121. Oxford. —. 2018. “On the way to Roxane 2. Satraps and Hyparchs between Bactra and Zariaspa-Maracanda” In A Millennium of History: The Iron Age in Central Asia (2nd and 1st millennia BC) (Archäologie in Iran und Turan 16), edited by Lhuillier, J. and Boroffka, N., 257–298. Darmstadt. Rapin, C. et al. 2005. “Recherches sur la région des Portes de Fer de Sogdiane: bref état des questions” Istorija Material’noj Kul’tury Uzbekistana 35: 102–112. Rapin, C. and Isamiddinov, M. 1994. “Fortifications hellénistiques de Samarcande (Samarkand-Afrasiab)” Topoi 4: 547–565. Rapin, C. and Khasanov, M. 2016. “Les traditions architecturales de l’époque achéménide à l’époque hellénistique. Récentes découvertes en Sogdiane” In Asie Centrale. Transferts culturels le long de la route de la Soie, edited by Espagne, M. et al., 61–94. Paris. Rougemont, G. 2012a. Inscriptions grecques d’Iran et d’Asie Centrale, Corpus Inscriptionum Iranicarum. London. —. 2012b. “Les inscriptions grecques d’Iran et d’Asie centrale. Bilinguisme, interférences culturelles, colonisation” Journal des Savants janvier-juin: 3–27. —. 2014. “Grecs et non Grecs dans les inscriptions grecques d’Iran et d’Asie centrale” Studia Iranica 43: 7–39. Rtveladze, E.V. 2002. Aleksandr Makedonskij v Baktrii i Sogdiane. Tashkent. —. 2007. “Alessandro in Battriana e Sogdiana” Parthica 9: 153–204.

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Rtveladze, E.V. et al. 2014. “Monetnye nakhodki iz kreposti Uzundara” Kratkie soobshchenija instituta arkheologii 233: 151–159. Schmitt, H.H. 1964. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Antiochos des Großen und seiner Zeit. Wiesbaden. Sverchkov, L.M. 2005. “Archaeological monuments of Boysun district” History and traditional culture of Boysun / Istorija i tradicionnaja kul’tura Bajsuna, Trudy bajsunskoj nauchnoj ekspedicii 2: 10–45. —. 2008. “The Kurganzol Fortress (on the History of Central Asia in the Hellenistic Era)” Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 14: 123–191. —. 2013. Kurganzol. Krepost’ Aleksandra na juge Uzbekistana. Taskhent. Thierry, F. 2005. “Yuezhi et Kouchans. Pièges et dangers des sources chinoises” In Afghanistan, ancien carrefour entre l’est et l’ouest, edited by Bopearachchi, O. and Boussac, M.-F., 421–539. Turnhout. Traina, G. 2017. “Rois ou dynastes ? Les territoires arméniens à l’époque d’Antiochos III” In Antiochos III et l’Orient, edited by Feyel, C. and Graslin-Thomé, L., 377–388. Nancy. Veuve, S. 1987. Fouilles d’Aï Khanoum VI. Le gymnase, Paris. Virgilio, B. 1999. Lancia, diadema e porpora. Il re e la regalità ellenistica. Pisa–Roma.

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The Limits of Kushan Power and the Limits of Evidence* Robert Bracey

The invitation to participate in The Limits of Empire conference in 2016, and the lengthy discussion paper Richard Payne and Gil Stein prepared, was a welcome opportunity to reassess my understanding of the Kushan state. The conference organisers drew on a number of recent theoretical positions on pre-modern states including The Art of Not Being Governed. 1 This particular text posed a challenging question which I was asked address; what might a history of the Kushan period look like if it was told not from the perspective of the eponymous Empire but from Scott’s ‘negative spaces’; the peripheral, rural, and non-state peoples? Having said that I must now justify why I did not write such an account. The answer is simply that I was unable to do so. The task is not impossible as such, but rather a lack of personal skill, evidence, and the limitations of existing historiography rendered the task unachievable. Any attempt would have resulted in a paper so speculative as to be ephemeral, or a theoretical exercise so insufficiently grounded in the empirical as to hold no real value. The most significant difficulty is historiographic. The historiography of Kushan studies has centred so firmly around the Kushan state that it cannot easily be escaped. And its sub-disciplines (epigraphy, numismatics, textual history, art history, archaeology) are literally predicated on the assumption that the object of study will be urban state-related phenomena (coins, writing, sculpture, buildings). Further, that historiography proceeds through a synthetic reconstruction dependent on sources from disparate times and places. This tends to create singular visions out of complex realities. Even for the self-replicating, culturally homogenous ‘lowland’ states that Scott imagines as a counter-point to his nonstate people, that creates difficulties. It would be untenable for the diverse, rapidly shifting, linguistically and culturally diverse societies Scott characterises as forming non-state space. So instead I have chosen to write a paper which seems achievable and comes closest to the objectives the conference organisers set. This paper begins at the nominal centre of the Kushan state, the Kushan emperor. From that centre it works gradually outwards (through officials, then subordinates, to boundaries, and ultimately military expeditions) * Robert Bracey’s paper was prepared as part of the ERC project Beyond Boundaries (ERC 609823). 1 Scott 2009.

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exploring the ways in which power was projected and the limits of the evidence. Finally, having drawn a picture of the Kushan state and explored the limits of the evidence the paper will touch briefly upon the potential evidence for non-state spaces in the forest, steppe, and highland. First, it will be useful to quickly summarise Scott’s thesis. I believe Scott’s argument can be broken down as follows: – –

–

–

–

Historians principally focus on ‘agrarian states’, with large centralised institutions and bureaucracies, which represent only a small part of the global surface and population. Such states suffer from a ‘friction of distance’ which restricts their power to terrain which is relatively easy to traverse and to people who live by agrarian practices which render them static and easily taxed, or ‘administratively legible’. 2 The reach of states is much smaller than states claimed and smaller than historians reconstruct. Opposed to states are a periphery which Scott often labels ‘hill peoples’ but which I will refer to as non-state spaces. 3 He presents them as resistant to central authority, with identities which are diverse, heterogeneous, and rapidly shifting. These are opposed in Scott’s thesis to the homogenous, static identities of the ‘valley states’. Movements of people between these two, state and non-state spaces, are frequent. The flight response is central to his hypothesis. People at the edge of states respond to oppressive state action by fleeing to non-state spaces. In turn states draw on non-state spaces for manpower, sometimes coerced. The non-state spaces are thus formed by a constant influx of peoples resistant to state formation and frequent encounters with agrarian states. The states and non-state spaces are symbiotic. Historical non-state spaces exist primarily as ‘secondary formations’ which result from the nature of states. Scott goes as far as to suggest people in non-state spaces reject certain technologies, such as writing, 4 specifically as a strategy to resist state formation.

Scott writes through the lens of the highlands of Southeast Asia. However, he makes clear at several points that he imagines his non-state spaces to encompass the pastoral nomads of the steppes 5 as well as travelling communities such as the Roma or Sinti. 6 Scott’s position, as with most theoretical positions, is prone to generalisation and tends to elide historical specificity, 7 which makes it all the more interesting to test it against a far removed field of study. 2 3 4 5 6 7

Scott 2009: 92. Scott 2009: 238 ff. Scott 2009: 220 ff. Scott 2009: 25, 257, 260. Scott 2009: 25. Sadan (2009) offers a detailed review which highlights many of these concerns. However other reviews have been positive and Longkumer (2012) wonders specifically about its applicability to Naga studies in India (not to be confused with the Naga contemporaries of the Kushans).

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This is a challenging thesis for South Asian history in general, which tends to construct its historical narratives dynastically through paramount imperial powers (Mauryans, Satavahanas, Kushans, Guptas, etc). It suggests accounts of the Kushan period are fundamentally distorted, that they take as central a phenomenon which encompasses only a small fraction of human activity. The Kushan State The Kushan State and its Administration in Theory The Kushan period conventionally encompasses the 1st to 4th century CE, the modern states of Afghanistan and Pakistan, the north-west of India (as far as Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh), some parts of the western Tarim basin, bits of Iran, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan. It is part of what is referred to as the ‘historic’ period in Indian conventions, is exactly co-eval with ‘middle Indian Buddhism’, and incorporates most of the art historical subjects known as Gandharan and Mathuran art. 8 There is in the period technically more than one Kushan state. Excluding the division of the Empire under Kanishka III and Vasudeva II, and the usurper Maśra, from the 3rd to 4th century there was a Sasanian backed state in Bactria (northern Afghanistan/Uzbekistan) whose rulers refered to themselves as kushanshah, ‘king of Kushan’, often labelled by modern numismatists as Kushano-Sasanians. In the mid to late 4th century there was also a Kidarite kingdom which claimed to be the successor of both the Kushans and the Kushanshah. This paper will focus on the Kushan dynasty though mention will be made of these other groups as well as contemporaries such as the Indo-Parthians, Paratarajas, Yaudheya, Naga, Maghas, Mitras of Ayodhya, Satavahanas, and Western Satraps. The Kushan Empire was neither culturally nor linguistically homogenous. This is in keeping with the casual English usage which takes ‘empire’ as an entity encompassing what might otherwise be, or in practice are, different political units. Think, for example, of the British Empire, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, or the Holy Roman Empire. The definitional problems this creates have been well addressed elsewhere. 9 In this paper the problem will be elided by treating the nominal centre of the empire (the Kushan king) and the nonstate spaces beyond the empire as falling on a continuum of control. The practical realities,

8 References to Kushan studies will be provided throughout the paper but Buddhist monasticism and schools of art will not be extensively treated. For interested readers the bulk of Gregory Schopen’s articles have been conveniently compiled into four volumes (1996; 2004; 2005; 2014) and they provide an introduction to middle Indian Buddhism. For a recent discussion of Gandhara and its associated art see Jansen & Luczanitz: 2008, and for a fuller bibliography, Guenée 1998. There is no equivalent historiography for Mathura with only a handful of monographs on the subject. The most recent (Quintanilla 2007) mostly focuses on the limited pre-Kushan evidence but includes a good bibliography of earlier work. 9 Morrison 2001.

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Fig. 1: The Kushan dynasty with approximate dates

in so far as our evidence permits their reconstruction, including any sharp boundaries, will become apparent as that line is traced from the centre outwards. We know very little about the Kushan dynasty itself. The names of 13 emperors are available from inscriptions and coins but only one other member of the family is known. 10 A system of primogeniture is strongly suggested by the succession from Kujula through to 10 Sadakshana, the son of Kujula Kadphises is named in a now lost scroll (CKI#249) of the king of Odi, Senavarma. This assumes that the copper object (coin/seal?) inscribed ‘Kanishka, son of Huvishka’ is not related to the dynasty (Göbl 1984: no. 984). It also excludes three names found on fragmentary sculptures, two found at the royal shrine of Mat near Mathura, The first probably Prastana(?), the other two Nāyasa, and Lavana (Lüders 1961: no. 100, 101, 127). These might be the names of the people portrayed but it is not clear what their relationship to the dynasty is. The first of these has caused much confusion in Kushan studies because it has been frequently misread as identifying the Western Satrap ruler Chastana (Rosenfield 1967: 145–146).

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Kanishka I. This does not mean that each king was the son of the preceding ruler. Huvishka was probably a cousin of his predecessor Kanishka, and it is possible that Vasudeva II usurped the throne and so was not the son of Kanishka III or Vasishka 11 (see fig. 1 12). Primogeniture was not a universal practice in North India amongst the dynasties known to us. The contemporary Western Satrap dynasty, which ruled Gujarat and surrounding regions from the 1st to the 4th century CE seems to have followed a collateral form of succession where brothers inherited. 13 The Gupta kings who rose to prominence in the 4th century seem to have experienced a routine and violent inter-regnum with rival claimants taking up arms at the death of each king, whatever system they adhered to in theory. 14 These differences might explain why the family trees of those dynasties can be reconstructed in more detail than the Kushans. One important difference is that the wife or mother of the king is frequently mentioned in connection with other dynasties, and never with the Kushans. Even in the case where a non-ruling son is mentioned it occurs in an inscription of another dynasty, the kings of Odi. 15 Official proclamation and imagery present the king as the central and singular embodiment of the state, but gives no space to the dynasty. Officials will be examined below, and it will be seen that very few are related to the dynasty, or at least that very few make that claim. So the Kushan self-presentation is very odd, and it raises unanswerable questions about how much this reflected a political reality. Should we believe the self-presentation of the king as sole and unique authority? Or might this evidence be read against the grain to suggest power was more diffuse with the king acting as a figure-head? A few inscriptions refer directly to the kings or work undertaken on their behalf. Most of these relate to temples associated with the dynastic pantheon. 16 In a small number of cases there is evidence of dynastic patronage beyond these enclosed spaces. The so-called Kanishka reliquary (CKI#145) is not itself an example of royal patronage itself but it suggests one. It was probably originally intended for public display in a Buddhist monastery and was donated by two members of that community. However it has an image of the king and confirms the monastery was named after the Kanishka. 17 Similarly a set of pillars found at the Jamalpur mound in Mathura may have been erected in a monastery named 11 The genealogy of the early kings is given in the Rabatak inscription (Sims-Williams 1996; Cribb 1996). Huvishka’s lineage is referred to in an inscription from Mat (Lüders 1961: no. 98). Kanishka III is named as king in the Ara inscription of the year 41 (CKI#158) while his birth is probably recorded in the the Kamra inscription (CKI#230), in the year 30, though Falk (2009) dissents from previous editors on this point. Note that the reconstruction offered in this section differs substantially from Mukherjee (1967) because many of the relevant inscriptions post-date that work. 12 All dates are approximate with margins of error ± 10 years. Those expressed with actual years are based on the evidence of dated inscriptions, mostly from Mathura in Northern India. Much of the debate over dating has focused on the accession of Kanishka I (see Bracey 2017). 13 See for examples Rajgor & Jha 1944: 32–33, 36, 37–38. 14 Willis 2005: 143–145. 15 Salomon 2003. 16 Bracey 2012a. 17 Errington & Cribb 1992: 189–197, Errington 2002, Baums 2015: 246, no. 45.

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after the Kushan emperor Huvishka. 18 However, where the actual dedication survives, as for example in a hall at which 100 Brahmins were to be fed in Mathura, 19 there is a named officer who is responsible for the establishment, though the merit is given to the king. Interestingly this inscription in India uses a Macedonian month name and refers to the king as ṣahi, which is both odd for the region and may indicate the official was from Gandhara or Bactria. It is therefore unclear in these cases to what the degree the initiative lay with the officer, whom we will consider in a moment, or the king. As in all states there existed an administration which put the centre’s decisions into effect. That administration may even have originated much of the policy. Unfortunately, as no narrative histories of the period survive, we are dependent entirely on inscriptions. The most informative are three which give a limited prosopography for an official named Nokonzok. All appear to have come from royal sanctuaries of the Kushan emperors in the mountainous region between Bactria and Gandhara. The latest of the three was found at Surkh Khotal. It records the repair of a water supply at the site. The inscription has several temporal layers in its narrative. It records that the temple was established under Kanishka I, and subsequently re-established by Nokonzok, who visited in the year 31 (157 CE), during the reign of Huvishka. Nokonzok is described as a karalrang. In his translation Gershevitch 20 offers ‘Lord of the Marches’ as a translation of this term. Following Nokonozok’s visit the work was undertaken by Kozgasks and Burzmihr, neither of whom are given titles, and the inscription was engraved by Burzmihr’s son Mihraman. The earliest of the three inscriptions comes from another royal temple, at Rabatak. 21 This inscription was engraved later than the year 6 (c. 132 CE) but still in the reign of the Kushan emperor Kanishka, probably before the year 10 (c. 136 CE), so about twenty years before Nokonzok’s visit to Surkh Khotal. Here Nokonzok holds the title hashtwalg, and works with two other individuals, Pyash and Shafar, both karalrangs. The work in this case was the building of a shrine. Between these two monumental inscriptions belongs a recently published 22 and un-provenanced silver dish. Judging by its inscription this was a personal dedication by the same Nokonzok and records his achievements and service up to the year 10 (c. 136 CE).

18 Shrava (1993: 79–81) takes this to be the case. One inscription does read hūvīṣkasya vīhāre but it may be that this is an idiosyncratic dating formulae with the king’s name following rather than proceeding the year and thus inadvertently juxtaposed with the gift to the monastery. 19 Shrava 1993: 57–58. 20 Gershevitch 1979. 21 The latest date Sims-Williams reads in the inscription is the year 6 and Kanishka’s reign extends to at least the year 23 (the last inscription which names him) and not later than the year 26 (the first inscription to name his successor). The initial and subsequent revisions of the readings are available in Sims-Williams (1996, 1998, 2004). Readings here are drawn from Sims-Williams (2004). 22 Sims-Williams 2015.

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This makes fairly clear that karalrang was a promotion from hashtwalg, 23 and that Nokonzok was originally appointed amboukao, under Kanishka’s father (Wima Takto). There are a number of intriguing elements to Nokonzok’s career, apart from its substantial length at more than fifty years. Firstly he never suggests he is related to the Kushan kings, but he and his colleagues have conspicuously Bactrian/Iranian style names and so are not a cross-section of the Empire’s population. Secondly, though holding several offices he never holds the titles ksatrap or daḍanāyaka, which are otherwise well-attested (see table 1). In fact, his titles are not well attested outside of these inscriptions, which makes it difficult to say what each role involved beyond the context of the inscriptions themselves. Table 1 summarises data from inscriptions about officials and titles in the Kushan period. The first point to note is that the data is rather modest. For three centuries there are only about twenty-five records, and most of these come from southern Bactria or Gandhara, mostly in the reigns of just two kings (Kanishka and Huvishka). Moreover, high officials are better attested than what must have been a much larger number of minor officials. Tab. 1: Titles and officials recorded in Kushan period inscriptions Rank

Other ranks held

Name

Notes

Titles whose bearers seem to be acting on behalf of the Kushan emperor Karalrang

amboukao hashtwalg

Bakanapati Patina ‘Mint master’

bakanapati? (mahā)daḍanāyaka?

Nokonzok (year 31) Pyash Shafar Narkas (3rd century) 24

See above

Humaṣpala

Lüders, 1961, no. 98

? (year 28) ?

Mat Pedestal 26

 25

Yodhavade

Known only from a small Gandharan issue. 27

23 The title hashtwalg is attested later in the Bactrian documents (Sims-Williams 2007: ck) and on a seal in the British Museum (BM, 1892,1103.98). 24 Along with Ram, an official with the title hōstīg, this appears on a silver vessel (Falk & Sims-Williams 2017: 134–5) dated by the mention of a king Vasudeva (contrary to the statement in that article this might be either Vasudeva I or II). 25 Konow 1931. There is some uncertainty around the reading of the official responsible for the work. 26 Lüders (1961: no. 99) reads (ma)na[pāka]patina amongst other titles. It is not clear if the titles refer to a single individual or, as in the Rabatak inscription, to several. Luder’s notes (note 14) that Sahni read the title Ba[kana]patina(ā). 27 Yodhavade appears on the reverse of a small group of issues in the place the name of a god would normally be expected. However, the same inscription appears regardless of the god depicted, so the name of a moneyer seems more plausible as first suggested by Cribb (Errington & Cribb 1992: no. 67), and also illustrated in Cribb 2008: no. 96 and 97. Falk (2015: 102) wants to read Kashmir type Kushan coins as having been issued by a Mahaksatrap and grandson of the king, but this is

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Robert Bracey High titles otherwise also attested in other contemporary dynasties Title

(maha)ksatrap 28

(mahā)daḍanāyaka

Named individuals (dates)

References

Avkhzada (year 303) Vanaspara & Kharapallana (year 3) Veśpaśi (year 18) Anacapahaka (year 39) Tiravharṇa (year 83)

CKI #178 Vogel 1905: 166–179; Salomon 1999: 270–272 CKI #149 CKI #244 CKI #179 29

? Hummiyaka (year 4) Lala? (Year 18) 30 Ehada (year 46) Valana (year 74) 31

Lüders 1961: no. 99 Sircar 1961: 3; Shrava 1993: 9–10 CKI #149 CKI #440

Other titles held gramasvamisa dadanyaka

Minor Titles 32 Gramika

? (year 16) 33 Jayadeva (year 40)

kalavaḍā

?

Sethi

? 34 (year 4)

28 29

30

31 32 33

34

Bühler 1892: 387–388; Shrava 1993: no. 86 Lüders 1961: no. 114

not included as readings from single coins are doubtful. Discussion with colleagues indicates other currently unpublished coins and inscriptions may contain further references to Kushan officials. Several Mathuran inscriptions mention ksatraps but are associated with the predecessors of the Kushans in Mathura (Sharma 1989). I include a fragmentary inscription mentioning a Ksatrap named Ghataka (Lüders 1961: no. 118) in this category. The transcription given in the CKI (July 2017) does not match with the reading of Fussman it claims to be based on. Fussman reads Tiravharna as ksatrap of Pushpurasa, presumably a city or region, and reads a second subordinate figure, Malshua, with the title cobuva. The date, year 83, could be either an Azes era (pre-Kushan) or a Kushan era date. The inscription on a stone slab covering a relic chamber from Manikyala was established by an individual Lala referred to as guṣaṇavaśasaṃvardhaka lala daḍaṇayago, which Konow (1929) had taken as referring to a general but Baums (2012) translates as ‘Lala, increaser of the Kuṣāṇa line, judge, donation master’. Valana or Ulāna, is attested in two inscription, one attached to the remains of what was probably a portrait (Lüders 1937–1938: 206–207; Lüders 1961: 65–68, no. 30 and 119). I have excluded some minor titles such as rājanāpitasya, ‘barber of the king’, (Lüders 1961: no. 75) as there is no way to be confident these were made in the Kushan period. Sircar (1963–1964: 191) reads the inscription found near Agra as referring to the gaumika of the Āti clan. This is the same inscription as published in Shrava (1993: no. 43) who depends on what seems to be an erroneous reading from the Journal of the Epigraphic Society of India (the reading [bhi] kunā is clearly incorrect if the plates are consulted). This is an inscription of the time of Kanishka II and the reading (Shrava 1993: no. 24) which seems uncertain is derived from the first publications of Kankali Tila, where the term sethi is translated as ‘alderman’ though it might be more accurately rendered as a banker (Prasad 1977: 177–179)

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Minor Titles niyavaḍaki

? 35

Balādhikā

? 36

Hāmārakara

Falk 2010: 78

CKI = Corpus of Kharoshthi Inscriptions, available at gandhara.org

Like the titles associated with Nokonzok, the titles dadanyaka and patinā, which are found in Indian contexts meaning ‘general’ and ‘lord’, also seem to be used by people acting on behalf of the king. At least one individual involved in work at the royal shrine of Mat (near Mathura in India) is referred to as a mahādaḍanāyaka, another as a patinā, and the individual responsible for donating a hall in the year 28 (154 CE) is referred to as kharāsalerapatin[ā] vakanapatinā, the first term perhaps meaning ‘lord of Kharasalera’. 37 The Mat shrine, which is referred to in the inscriptions as a devakula, a direct Indian translation of the Bactrian term for royal shrines, bagolaggo, definitely represents official activity. It is possible that daḍanāyaka and patinā were used here as translations for one of more of the official titles known from Nokonzok’s career. These titles, and the predominantly Iranian names associated with them, may represent an ethnically homogenous elite acting throughout the Kushan Empire. This leaves unexplained one title, kṣatrapa. It has often been assumed that the Kushan empire was administered through a system of hereditary satraps with geographic responsibility, see for example Puri 38 who describes this as a ‘feudal element’. However, Salamon, 39 in an important discussion of the subject, points out that satraps rarely acknowledge a superior. The inscription mentioning Lala indicates he is related in some ill-defined way to the Kushans, though Lala himself is not a satrap and the inscription is a private donation. 40 This might suggest the existence of parallel systems, with the Kushans taking over a patchwork of existing regional administrations, and simultaneously imposing their own

35 Lüders 1961: no. 102. Lüders takes niyavaḍaki to be a title akin to kalavaḍā. The inscription shows the developed form of sya without a tripartite ya and is dated to the year 8 of Kanishka so undoubtedly in the reign of Kanishka II (Bracey 2011). 36 Lüders 1961: no. 123 offers as the title of the husband of a donor, Sharma 1993: 131–132, probably less reliably, balādhikrita, as title of the brother of the donor. The inscription is dated in the year 270 (presumably the yona era, c. 96 CE) of an un-named maharaja, probably Wima Takto. 37 Konow (1931). A wildly different translation is available online (Sen 1977) ‘Pracinaka the Lord of the Kharasalera he governor of charitable institutions, son of Sarukamana’ but is dubious. It is tempting to connect vakanapatina with the similar sounding title, bakanapati which Luder’s (1961: 60). The only speculative suggestion as to the location of Kharasalera I am aware of is Mukherjee’s (1960: 54) offer of Karashahr in Central Asia. 38 Puri 1994: 262–263. 39 Salomon 1973. 40 The one exception Salamon (1973: 18) indicates is actually an error on his part, the inscription mentions the Kushan king only as part of the dating formula.

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Fig. 2: Speculative reconstruction of Kushan administration

direct administration over critical matters. Figure 2 offers a speculative reconstruction on this basis. If the Kushans inherited a system of regional satraps they presumably also inherited many potentially heterogeneous minor administrators throughout the empire. The term gramika, often translated as ‘headman’, can serve as an example as it is the most common (occurring twice) in Kushan period inscriptions. 41 The title occurs in a number of Indian texts, notably the Arthashastra. 42 The Arthashastra is a 1st to 3rd century CE composition probably incorporating earlier material and subject to later redactions. It is probably a combination of descriptive and idealised accounts and it briefly mentions the gramika as an official who takes responsibility for a small community and may have some judicial and revenue collection powers. This sounds like an interesting source, and it is not unique. As well as the Arthashastra several north Indian Brahmanical legal codes survive, the most famous of which is the Mānava-Dharmásāstra. 43 There are also the Bactrian documents 44 and a set of 4th/3rd century BCE documents relating to the administration of a satrap in Bactria. 45 However, all of these sources are problematic for our purposes as they seem to have been written later, earlier, or in regions outside of the Kushan territory. One of the inscriptions from table 2 (CKI#178) will illustrate the problem. It is inscribed on the base of a miniature stupa found in Charsadda, Pakistan, and dated in the 41 42 43 44 45

Sharma 2015: 299 ff. Kangle 1969: vol.3, 197–198; Rangarajan 1987: 335–338. Olivelle 2005. Sims-Williams 2000–2007. Naveh & Shaked 2012.

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year 303 of the Greek era, probably the early part of the reign of the Kushan king Kanishka. The inscription refers to the donor as gramas[va]amisa avakhazadasa puyae kṣatravasa. 46 Gramasvamin, the first title, does occur in the Arthashastra 47 where they are held responsible for losses to caravans, and is may be equivalent to gramika. However, the donor Avakhazda is also given the title ksatrap, which Achaemenid texts suggest is a powerful regional governor. It does not seem plausible that an individual would hold both titles unless one of them meant something very different in this context. The point of the current exercise is to tease out the peculiarities of the Kushan period, as a concrete example of a South/Central Asian Empire, against which to test some of the ideas presented in Scott’s state/non-state thesis. Collapsing temporal and geographic distinctions to create a broader picture can be very useful, as recently illustrated in a study on Buddhist monks tax liabilities, 48 but not for these purposes. Table 1 also includes ‘mint officials’ in the list of titles. Though the existence of coins demonstrates there must have been a mint administration, no evidence of the titles used survives, though one small group of coins from Gandhara (location C3 on Fig. 3) names an official, Yodhavade. Coins will be used in subsequent sections, especially when discussing the relationship between the boundaries of the Kushan Empire and its neighbours, but they are less helpful than is often assumed. Numismatists can broadly be divided into two camps on the interpretation of coin design—the propagandists and the functionalists. 49 The former believe that ancient coins derive their value from their intrinsic metal content, and therefore states had a free hand in the designs they placed on the coins. Those designs could be used to send messages from the central state to the users of the coins. Weak propagandists tend to view these messages as generic glorifications of state power, while strong propagandists often read specific messages about policy. For example, some scholars of Kushan studies see the wide range of divinities on the reverses of the coins of Kanishka (127–150 CE) and Huvishka (150–190 CE) as an attempt to appease or win the support of the diverse religious communities over which they ruled. 50 In contrast functionalist-inclined numismatists see coin design as performing an essential part in ensuring coins are accepted as money. Designs do this in two competing ways, by referencing authority (such as the state) to back the 46 47 48 49

Baums 2012: 239–240. Kangle 1969: 4.13.8 and vol.III, 197. Pagel 2014.

The idea of propaganda was first introduced in Roman numismatics (Mattingly 1917: 66) and remains conventional wisdom (Grierson 1999: 23). For the alternative functional model see for example Wasserstein (1993) or Cribb (2009).

50 For an example of the propaganda model applied to early Kushan coins: “… the coins were not residues of the issuer’s behaviour, but rather must be seen as an active engagement with the social situation; a medium of communication that was manipulated in various ways to create new social and political realities. Religious imagery was used not as a profession of a personal faith, but rather as a means to bring together different groups under the domain of one sovereign.” (Michon 2015: 151). It should be noted that amongst specialists this idea has long been dismissed (Rosenfield 1967: 69–70).

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Fig. 3: Kushan mints in the mid to late 2nd century CE

money, and by ensuring a similar design to previous coins that users are familiar with. So a functionalist would see the gods on the reverse of Kushan coins as reflecting the royal pantheon to which the Kushans appeal for legitimacy in their official inscriptions cast into forms familiar from already circulating coinage. In other words, they reflect claims the audience would already understand rather than communicating new ones. The current author falls very much in the functionalist camp, so the coins are not read here as tools for the projection of power, though they might reflect power in a more limited way. For example, the production of coins was an instrument of state power, either economic or as a form of royal largesse, and their locations likely represent places directly administered by the Kushan Empire. Fortunately the locations of the mints can be broadly established. 51 Figure 3 shows sites of Kushan mints. Each mint generally produced coins of a single metal (gold or copper). In the 2nd century the principle gold mint (G1) was located in Balkh and the main copper mint in Begram (C1) with various smaller mints further south. All of the mints used similar imagery and made changes at about the same time, suggesting they answered to a common central authority. However, they did so with considerable autonomy, often using the same symbols for different purposes. The concentration of mints in the northern part of the Kushan Empire, and particularly in Gandhara, reflects the distribution of officials in table 1. That the most important mint is located in Bactria re-

51 Bracey 2012b; Jongeward et al. 2015: 7–10.

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flects the general pattern of names seen among high officials. And unlike the inscriptions which might be distorted by accident of survival the mints represent a complete data set. Let us summarise this account of the evidence for Kushan administration. The number of inscriptions is quite modest and so any conclusion tentative. There certainly existed an administration, whose names do not reflect the population of the Empire as a whole, and who acted on behalf of the king throughout the Empire, most visibly at royal sanctuaries. Alongside this there are many titles that represent pre-existing administrative practices but we do not know what role they performed under the Kushans. In some cases existing rulers, such as the Kings of Odi (CKI#249; CKI 369) 52 or the Satraps of Mathura (independent rulers in the 1st century CE) continued to rule under the Kushans. The city of Mathura was probably under direct Kushan administration in the 2nd century CE, but the status of the Kings of Odi is less clear. The evidence suggests that no single model applied everywhere and degrees of local autonomy may have varied considerably. The Kushan State in Practice: Examples of Administration, Boundaries, the (In)visibility of Political Power Having examined the limited evidence for the relationship between the central court, its officials, and existing and new administrations, the following section will try to explore some of the practical realities. It will begin with two examples. The first is the control of water supplies when the state appears to be absent in a field where it would be expected to be present. The second is a common era throughout the Empire, which, though the mechanism is unclear, demonstrates the ability of the Kushan administration to effect widespread changes. Kharoshthi was the dominant script in Gandhara and the surrounding regions, which form just a part of the Kushan Empire. However, Kharoshthi inscriptions are useful in part because a comprehensive database of them exists (the Corpus of Kharoshthi Inscriptions) and because with the exception of a few Ashokan inscriptions and a period of use in the Western Tarim basin, Kharoshthi is restricted to the first three centuries CE in the kingdoms which immediately preceded the Kushan Empire and the Kushan Empire itself. This makes collecting a comprehensive sample on any subject quite practical. Falk 53 has collected and examined Kharoshthi inscriptions which appear to relate to wells. These are engraved on large stones which probably faced the outer edges of draw wells and 17 are known in total (see Fig. 4 and table 2). Water management is central to the survival of agrarian societies, and it is often a sufficiently difficult task to require corporate efforts. Of the inscriptions, six of the 17 are recorded as the work of groups rather than individuals. It is probably not co-incidental that most of them occur relatively close to modern water-management features (marked with dotted circles on Fig. 4). And as important, expensive, social activities they prob52 Neelis 2007: 117–119; Bailey 1980; Salomon 1986. 53 Falk 2009.

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Fig. 4: Kharoshti well inscriptions (squares) with known provenances

ably enjoyed some legal status. Otherwise it would be hard to explain why all of the 17 inscriptions are dated 54 (compared to just 101 dated examples of the 1117 extant kharoshthi inscriptions). So it is surprising that only one of these inscriptions was made by a state official, and that inscription comes from a different region from the rest. It is hard to compare this with other regions because there are no equivalents of the CKI database for Brahmi inscriptions, most of which come from a single city anyway. Shaw 55 offers an analysis of the region around Sanchi, roughly contemporary but south of the Kushan Empire in the territory of the Western Satraps or Satavahanas, suggesting Buddhist monastics rather than the state co-ordinated water management activity. However in the six well inscriptions (also all dated) in Brahmi script I was able to locate from North India, one was carried out directly on behalf of a king and three by officials (two generals and a treasurer). 56 So why is the state absent from the Kharoshthi inscriptions? Granted, several of the inscriptions mention the current Kushan emperor, but this is part of the dating formula (discussed below) and not an indication of official involvement. This might be an accident of survival, perhaps state involvement was recorded separately in some perishable form? It may also be peculiar to this region. Or it might be a peculiarity of the Kushan Empire itself, that this was simply an activity that it did not involve itself in.

54 Falk offers opinions on the various eras in which the inscriptions might be dated. As most do not mention the name of a king it is hard to have much confidence, though it is likely some are of the Azes, Maues, or Yona eras (most likely the Azes) and so pre-date the Kushan period. 55 Shaw 2007. 56 Three from West India; two in the period of Western Satraps, the royal Junagdh inscription in 150 CE (Kielhorn 1905–1906), one by a senapati in 181 CE (Banerji & Suthankar 1921); one from the Gupta period by a dadanyaka in 429 CE (Mirashi 1955: 13–17). One inscription by a treasurer of the Ksatraps of Mathura (Lüders 1961: 99). The two private inscriptions, one from the Magha kingdom in the Gangetic valley in 166 CE (Chakravarti 1955: 180), and one from Mathura in the Kushan period (Sharma 1993: 312–313).

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Tab. 2: List of Kharoshthi well inscriptions 57 Falk No.

CKI

Date

Donors

2.1

829

94 Corporate: Aśvarakṣita companions

1.3

56

111 Private Person*: Saṃghamitra, son of Ānanda

3.1

47

3.4

830

1.4

?

1.1

51

1.2

52

Reported Findspot Peshawar?

Aprox. Lat. & Long. 34.0N 71.6E

Eastern Peshawar Plain Paja, between Jamalgarhi and Takht-i-Bahi

34.3N, 72.0E

81 Corporate: Vaṣiśuga companions

Muchai, Khyber Pakhtunkhwa

34.2N 72.2E

40 Private Individual*: Khaṇemaṇava, son of Khaeada

Swabi

34.1N 72.4E

Marguz, Swabi

34.1N 72.5E

Kala Sang, Mahaban

34.1N 72.5E

117? Corporate: ? 100(?) Corporate: Pipalakhaa companions 102 Private Person*: son of Makaḍaka

Mount Banj, Mahaban 34.1N 72.6E

Region around Attock 3.6

160

Ohind

33.9N 72.3E

2.3

230

30k Royal? 58

61 ?

Kamra

33.9N 72.4E

2.2

148

11 Private Person: Hiperecaa

Zeda, near Und

33.8N 72.4E

2.4

158

41k Private Person: Samadav- Ara hara, son of Toṣapuriya

33.8N 72.4E

3.5

156

40 Corporate*: Tradevaḍa

33.8N 72.4E

k

Shakardarra, Attock Dist. 59

Found outside the Peshawar plain/Northern Punjab 3.3

244

1.5

61

39 Official: Ksatrap Anacapaka

Spinwam, Waziristan

33.2N 70.4E

No provenance information available 168 Corporate*: Travaśakuraṇa companions

?

?

57 After Falk 2009. 58 The Kamra inscription is problematic, the lengthy titles and possible genealogical information would suggest a royal record but the last part is missing and it is possible that this is a private person using an unusually elaborate version of the standard dating formula. 59 Falk refers to inscriptions as found near ‘Campbellpore’ and ‘Campbellpur’ which today is a suburb of Attock and indicates he is working from locations noted in publications, not from a map.

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3.2

833

?k Private Individual: Vāsudeva, son of Indradeva

?

?

3.7

461

85 Private Individual: son of Nṛbhartṛśarman

?

?

5

832

16 Private Individual: Bhad- ? ra, son of Tejamitra

?

* These private persons and corporate groups are probably Buddhists and may be connected with monastic establishments K These inscriptions mention a king as part of the dating formula, see below for discussion.

Dated inscriptions were the subject of the last example and the dating formulae itself will be the subject of the next. In the early centuries CE the north and northwest of the subcontinent had several different calendrical systems. The most common in northern India, but almost exclusively found outside of the Kushan Empire, divided the year into months and then each month into two halves, a dark and light ‘fortnight’, and then numbered the days within that. In the northern Kushan Empire systems of both Iranian and Greek/Macedonian month names were used, and in the south of the empire at the city of Mathura a system was used which divided the year into three seasons, and then each season into four months. These systems were obviously local and of long-standing, and though they often correspond to administrative or political divisions, they do not in themselves seem to be political. They were combined with a system for indicating the year which also varied geographically. In many parts of the sub-continent the regnal year of the current king was used but in the northwest from the 1st century BCE it became popular to use a continuous era referring to a fixed event. The idea of dating by an era is so obvious to a modern reader that it is hard to remember that it is a form of technology which had to be invented and could only function successfully if it found (or created) social structures to sustain it. 60 Eras proliferated In North India and Central Asia from the 1st century BCE. The names of some reckonings are known (the Yona, Azes, and Kushan), and in some case the dates can be confidently converted into the modern common era. Many however are uncertain; the relationship between the Yona (early 2nd c. BCE) and Azes (late 1st c. BCE) is 60 It was probably quite a recent technology in this region. No era is attested before the 1st century BCE in northwest India and I am not aware of a European/West Asian attestation before the Seleucid reckoning in the early 3rd century BCE. The Greek historian Thucydides, for example, found it necessary to begin each year of his history by calibrating against half a dozen events presumably because the concept of an era did not exist. And the Kashmiri chronicle, the Rajatarangini, tracks time by noting the length of each king’s reign until the period of Utpala in 814 CE (Stein 1901: IV.173) when it begins to use the Laukika era. Presumably this reflects a change in its sources and that dating by regnal rather than era systems was quite persistent. Though conceptions of time continue to interest historians of India no account of eras as a technology has been written.

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known but not the precise inception points is not. Several eras are uncertain (the Maues, those suggested around the kings of Odi or Satraps of Mathura). Most inscriptions in the Kushan period can be divided into two sequences of dates, at least from the reign of Kanishka I. The first sequence is attested for years from 2 to 98 and the second years from 20 to 41. The latter is undoubtedly the ‘Kushan’ era commencing in 227 CE. What remains unclear is whether the former is part of the same system (a ‘saeculum’ or abbreviation that drops the numerals for a century) or a separate era. If all of this sounds confusing, it is. The historiography on these eras, which tends to revolve around the sequence of dates from 2 to 98 (known as the ‘Kanishka’ era), is vast. 61 That historiography remains focused on establishing inception points—which is only sufficient to date an inscription if the inscription names the era (very rare) or gives an unambiguous name for a king (also rare). For example, in the 17 well inscriptions considered above, none name the era, and only four name the ruling king. One of those is damaged where the name would appear, and one gives a names used by three different kings, so only two of the inscriptions can be definitely converted to an CE date. However, our interest here lies in the choice of era and the fact that the king’s name is used at all. The king’s name is not an unusual part of a dating formulae, though neither is it a requirement. For some authors, the proliferation of eras has been seen as a function of political power. For example Neelis 62 says of one 1st century dynasty: “The Apracas (or Avacas) acknowledge the authority of the Azes dynasty by using the older dynastic era beginning in 58/57 BCE in their Kharoṣṭī inscriptions.” This conclusion goes too far. The continuation of eras, like the various calendrical systems, seem a priori to be the result of local practices and traditions rather than a function of political power. However, the inception of eras is not, and the most dramatic example of this is the first sequence of Kushan dates, the ‘Kanishka’ era. Before the reign of Kanishka only one dated official inscription is known, that on a boulder at Dasht-i-Nawur which records (in Greek) the years as ‘279, 15 of Gorpias’. 63 The high date, official context, and Macedonian month name give us confidence this is a year in the Yona era (inception point early 2nd century BCE). Several other private inscriptions also mention Kushan kings, using what are probably the Yona or Azes eras (see table 3): Tab. 3: Dates associated with the first three Kushan emperors Kushan King

Azes Date

Kujula Kadphises Wima Takto

Yona Date 122

[250]

136

[264]

[151]

279

61 The most recent reviews are Bracey 2017 and Cribb 1999. 62 Neelis 2001: 72. 63 Sims-Williams 2012: 76.

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Wima Kadphises ?

Azes Date

Yona Date [156/9]

284/7

[171]

299

Given this sequence it is therefore extremely surprising that no inscription in which Kanishka I is mentioned uses either the Azes or the Yona era. The earliest inscription to mention him was found at Kosam, in the middle Ganges, and reads: [ma]h[ā] rājasya kaṇ[i]ṣkasa saṃva[tsa]ra[e] 2 h[e] 2 di 8 We know that this relates to Kanishka I because of the donor, a nun called Buddhamitra. 64 The dating formula with name, year, month/season abbreviated, and day abbreviated, is unusual for Kosam. More typical is a near contemporary (the above is 128 CE, the next 129 CE) private inscription, which eschews any abbreviation and uses light and dark fortnights. sidhaṃ mahārājasa vāsiṭhīpūtasa siri Bhīmaseṇasa savachhare ekapane 50 1 vasa pakhe pachame 5 divase aṭhame 8 The reason for this discrepancy is that the Buddhamitra inscription was not engraved in Kosam, but probably like the art piece to which it is attached, at the city of Mathura. How did the Mathuran engraver know that the piece was to be dated in a reckoning introduced less than two years before by a court nearly a thousand kilometres away in Bactria? That the reckoning was imposed by the Kushan king Kanishka is strongly implied in the official Rabatak inscription which states amongst his achievements: ‘… who has inaugurated the year one as the gods pleased.’ 65 Yet the Rabatak inscription could not have served to promulgate news of this new era so quickly, as it was not completed until at least four years after the donation. Granted, Buddhamitra probably had official patronage and connections but no private citizen in Mathura that we are aware of accidentally has a piece engraved using the old reckonings. The propagation of this instruction becomes even more surprising if Cribb 66 is correct 64 As well as the year 2 inscription (Lüders 1937) Buddhamitra’s was responsible for an inscription in the year 6 (Sharma 1993: 44), and was involved in the activity of the monk Bala at Sarnath (Vogel 1905: 166–179; Salomon 1999: 270–272). Her firm dating is the result of an inscription by her niece found in the Mathura region and dated in the year 33 of the reign of Huvishka (EI VIII, p. 181–2). She is unique not only for being the only female master of the Tripitaka known but also enjoying a social status sufficiently high that her niece could use her as an identity marker in a way otherwise exclusively restricted to men. 65 Sims-Williams 2004: lines 2–3. 66 Cribb 2005.

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Fig. 5: The five 300+ Yona era inscriptions (diamonds) and the earliest Kanishka era date (circle) juxtaposed with the dated Kharoshthi well inscriptions (squares)

that Kanishka’s new era is not a novel reckoning associated with his accession but a continuation of the existing Yona era with the century omitted, an instruction to write the date differently. No-one appears to make a mistake on that point. Though curiously in one very small region the Yona era continues in use for about a century era. Of the five provenanced Yona era inscriptions with dates higher than 300 all were found in the northern part of the Peshawar plain. 67 Figure 5 juxtaposes them with the well inscriptions discussed above. The appearance of the names of kings in dating formulae, and the rapid and near instantaneous promulgation of a new reckoning, show that the state centre could, and did, project power over vast distances. At the same time that projection of power might fail over very short distances, as evidence by the contemporary use of the Yona era in the Peshawar plain. It is tempting, but unproveable, to associate this apparent boundary with the Kings of Odi who may have ruled in this general area. These two examples suggest that the reality of Kushan power was a complex mosaic. Some points (and activities) the state could control quickly and effectively, while there were others over which they exerted only limited authority. None of the evidence here suggests any mechanism for that, but it might reflect hierarchical networks. If the ksatraps of Mathura answered directly to the Kushan emperors, while the successors of the kings of Odi were nominally independent, this would explain why central instruction flowed more effectively in one case than the other. However, in practical terms it is often difficult to establish if Kushan authority did extend to a particular location, even where urban centres are excavated and evidence of administration survives. Many references to a particular site as ‘Kushan’ are actually just arbitrary labels for material culture (particular architectural forms, brick sizes, pottery,

67 The five Kharoshti inscriptions frequently read as having dates higher than 300 and marked on the map from West to East are CKI 178 (yr 303), CKI 124 (yr 384), CKI 111 (yr 318), CKI 133 (yr 399), CKI 116 (yr 359).

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etc.). 68 Take the case of Sanghol, 69 a well-excavated urban settlement in the Punjab. In the early centuries CE the people were wealthy enough to fund several large stupas and import decorative carvings for one of those stupas from the workshops of Mathura. Who ruled the city? To whom did it pay taxes and in whose kingdom or empire did it reside? Almost all writing on the site assumes it was a Kushan city, some authors going as far as to suggest 70 that many of the structures were official constructions. Amongst the seals and sealings found are several which refer to officials (senapati, dandanayaka, mahadandanayaka, are amongst the titles) rather than private individuals. But only one of these indicates a king, a Śri Maharaja Kapila. Kapila is otherwise unknown and it is hard to tell if he is an independent king or a subordinate of one of the larger second to 5th century dynasties. 71 The only object which refers to a known ruler is a sealing of the Indo-Parthian king Gondophares (rajadirajasa tratarasa gudupharasa), which suggests, but hardly proves, that the city was part of the Indo-Parthian kingdom before the Kushan Empire was formed. An administrative complex (variously described as a hathiwara, ‘palace’ or ‘fortress’) is located on the north side of the site. This area was fortified, though it is unclear if it was for general security or military purposes. One room in that complex contained both a furnace and a set of terracotta moulds for Kuninda coins. This has been interpreted as a mint 72 and would, if official, suggest rule by the Kunindas 73 in the early 1st century, before the Kushans. All of this still leaves a question mark over the town’s relationship with the Kushan state. Mathura to the south, Gandhara and Kashmir to the north, were both Kushan territory in the 2nd and 3rd century CE, but parts of Haryana and the Punjab were not. Nearby towns like Sunet and Rohtak seem to have been administered by the contemporary Yaudheya state, 74 perhaps Sanghol was as well.

68 See for example Shah 2012 who uses the term in Kashmir to denote any site of the 1st to 4th century CE. 69 Michon (2010) provides an overview of the site and the volume in which his article appears has a full bibliography. 70 Margabandhu 2010: 109. 71 Letter forms do not limit the dates of the inscription very much, and though the seals are usually attributed to the 4th or 5th century, this is as likely to be a desire to avoid their clashing with the perceived domination of the Kushans as a careful consideration of their palaeography. The similarity of the phrasing on the seal with one referring to Jivagupta as a mahadandanayaka suggest the seals refer to the same local administration. 72 Michon 2010; Ray 2010: 187. 73 Sahni (1945) is the standard treatment on coin moulds, though the range of finds has expanded since. Many official India coinages are cast though most coin moulds are of die struck coins and so probably represent unofficial activities. Forgery is one possibility though Gupta (1960) has argued that some were official or locally sanctioned as supplementary currency. 74 Handa 2007.

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Fig. 6: The borders of the Kushan empire as reconstructed by Huntington, with ‘Kushan’ inscriptions (squares), Kushan administered cities (circles), and major cities administered by contemporary dynasties (hexagons)75

Lines on Maps: Borders, Fortifications, and Military Force The discussion so far focused on points on a map. For some points there is clear evidence of direct Kushan administration, for others equally clear evidence that there is not, and as the salutary case of Sanghol shows much ambiguity. Between these points there is simply no data, but is this mosaic of points an accurate representation of the Kushan state, or simply a reflection of our evidence? In his discussion of pre-modern imperial centres Scott likens power to a light bulb, gradually fading further from the centre, or as a liquid that flows freely until it reaches

75 The sites marked out with circles represent sites with evidence for Kushan rule, from North to South: Kalchayan, Balkh, Begram, Rabatak, Surkh Khotal, Peshawar, Taxila, Kanishkapura in Kashmir, and Mathura. The small squares show provenances for various inscriptions using dating formula that mention Kushan kings without any further evidence for Kushan rule. The hexagons mark locations of other states in the 2nd century, starting at twelve o’clock and working clockwise the cluster of three dots represent the Sogdian oasis and the states of Nakhshab, Samarkand, and Kesh. These states made their own coins, but Chinese sources consistently indicate they are subject to the Kangju. Then proceeding clockwise are Kashgar, Khotan, Ayodhya, Kosam (Shastri 1979), and Ujjain. The last is claimed as part of the Western Satrap ruler Rudradaman’s realm in the Junagadh inscription but several of its Buddhist sites seem to have received patronage from the contemporary central Indian Satavahanas. Then Rohtak/Sunet in the Punjab, and Loralei, Kandhahar, Herat, the last possible mints of the later Indo-Parthians (MacDowall & Ibrahim 1978; 1979), and finally the oasis of Merv, which was independent of Parthia in the early centuries CE (Loginov & Nikitin 1996: 39).

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an obstacle. 76 Both suggest, in different ways, areas rather than points, which could be bounded by a line. And traditionally it is with lines on maps that ancient states have been depicted. Figure 6 shows a typical, and relatively well-informed set of lines. The white dotted lines are based on a map prepared by John Huntington which represents the ‘Kushan Empire ca. 100–240 CE’ and an extension in the North East ‘under control of Kanishka? (ca. 127–152 + ?)’. 77 The northern edge of the original map is further south so it is ambiguous where Huntington would draw the northern boundary, though it seems to include Sogdia. Like other maps of the Kushan state it over-reaches the evidence and is inconsistent in treating neighbouring states. For example, the western boundary stops just shy of encompassing small states such as the Indo-Parthians or Paratarajas, but in the east it incorporates several such polities in the Kushan Empire. While it is true that marriage alliances or military interference are recorded in our sources the very existence of that testimony suggests an independent administration. Drawing on Scott’s ideas it might be argued that there is a tendency to accord too much credence to imperial states self-presentations of their power. The Rabatak inscription records a military campaign in the Gangetic valley, phrased in grandiose terms of conquest or submission. In its initial publication Cribb writes ‘one of the most forceful statements being made in the new inscription on behalf of Kanishka is the claim that he rules India as far as Kausambi and Pataliputra and beyond’ 78 giving more credence to the claims than is warranted. Another, and I think likely, possibility is that those drawing maps or discussing Kushan rule ignore other contemporary states. For example Huntington’s original map marks only the Western Satraps and Satavahanas in India (the Yaudheya, Maghas, and Mitras of Ayodhya are entirely omitted), the Indo-Parthians are marked only up to 110 CE, and the Parthians directly border the Kushans excluding both Merv and the Parataraja kingdom. In other words the reconstruction is made almost exclusively from inside the Empire looking out. A similar effect to Scott’s argument but not predicated on an agrarian/highland split. It would be possible, of course, to draw alternative boundaries, but definitional difficulties are substantial. What exactly does the line mean and what should be included within it? Should the kings of Odi be inside or outside the line if they are subordinate rulers? What about an allied state, or one on which the Kushans imposed a new ruler but did not exercise direct administration? In a provocative study which draws on both Sasanian and Mauryan examples Smith 79 has suggested that representing states as areas with boundaries is itself misleading. She argues that ancient states consisted of clusters of nodes, held together either by physical lines of communications, or more abstract bonds of diplomacy, alliance, or cultural/political affinity. The way in which cartographers draw maps has bled into our understanding (including Scott’s lightbulb and paint metaphors) of the physical reality of ancient states. If this position were accepted, and there must be 76 77 78 79

Scott 2009: 56–60. http://huntingtonarchive.org/resources/historicalMaps.php, downloaded Jun 2017. Cribb 1996: 107. Smith 2005.

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Fig. 7: Fortified sites discussed in the text (red dots, north to south: iron gates, Kampyr-tepe, Zadiyan; blue dots: possible fortified sites on the edge of the Balkh oasis)

some truth in it, then the various points on figure 6 would be a better representation than any boundary. However, not all lines are academic abstractions. Real borders did exist on the ground and they were in some cases protected by military means. For most of the Kushan state archaeological data is insufficient to the task of tracing them. In Bactria, particularly the Balkh oasis, its unusual geography and history of research (particularly French and Soviet scholarship), makes it an exception. Figure 7 marks several fortified archaeological sites. The southern most of the red dots indicates the walled settlement of Zadiyan, which was recently published as a fortified camp 80 intended to serve with other defences, at the Iron Gates and Kampyr-tepe, as defence in depth. I would draw a different conclusion as these sites have very different types of wall and may therefore have served distinct purposes. The Zadiyan settlement has a central fortified mound and consists of approximately 250 plots of land still visible in modern satellite imagery surrounded by a long wall. A plausible hypothesis is that it was a military colony, settling non-local soldiers who felt a stronger connection with the central state than with the local population. 200 to 300 soldiers would be too few to oppose an invasion or to adequately defend the outer wall which must therefore have been intended for more mundane purposes. The inner fortress might have served a military purpose, but a refuge makes more sense than defence. Kampyrtepe’s walls were also a refuge, though its position at a choke point on a river may have allowed it to control an internal boundary. Pagel 81 has recently discussed the importance

80 Vassiere 2013: 247. 81 Pagel 2014: 24–30.

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Fig. 8: The excavated site of Dilberjin (on left), and structures of similar size and design

of rivers in taxation, and it is possible garrisons spent far more time enforcing duties and tolls than on military matters. However, some fortifications probably did mark boundaries. Points at which authority diminished very rapidly, even if it projected somewhat further than the line. In some cases like the Iron Gates a fortification might supplement natural terrain (a river or mountain range) but in others a state might create lines itself. A plausible candidate for this can be identified on the northwest side of the Balkh oasis. The site of Dilberjin is known to have been in use under the Kushans in the 2nd century CE. 82 It is much smaller than Kampyrtepe, suggesting a fortress rather than a walled town, and it does not seem to be isolated. Publicly available satellite imagery reveals unexcavated sites of similar size and design located to the southwest and east at regular intervals along the outer edge of the oasis. Figure 8 shows examples of the unexcavated sites alongside Dilberjin, which are marked on Figure 5 by blue dots. Though the identification here is tentative, it suggests a fortified border, sufficiently closely spaced to pose an obstacle to an invader (or at least to their lines of supply and communication). If this is a border it stops a long way short of that marked on figure 6, hugging quite closely the edge of the Balkh oasis with its agricultural land and central imperial mint. Of course in times of peace the land beyond the border might have served transitory purposes such as grazing of cattle. This raises questions about the status of the Aqcha oasis further west, and the foothills to the Southwest, but the main point is that despite limited, and difficult to interpret, evidence it is clear real lines did exist and apparently much closer to imperial centres than is often assumed. However, while Kushan administration may have stopped or at least rapidly attenuated at the lines, the Kushan Empire still exerted power beyond them, particularly military power. 83 82 For the excavation see Kruglikova (1982). It has yielded a fragmentary Bactrian inscription too damaged to be read (Sims-Williams 2012: 76) but which may be official. 83 This line on the north-west border is simply the best attested in our evidence, other hard boundaries probably existed. For example the Kakcha river to the east of Bactria is an important site for the mining Lapis Lazuli and is at least partly fortified (Ball & Gardin,1982: #1001, #432 and #371) so would be a similar candidate for this sort of analysis.

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In Scott’s thesis military force plays a central part. It is the extraction of taxes through force that causes people to flee the state, and the relationship of the state to non-state space is mitigated by a combination of punitive action and raiding. 84 However, on this point the limitations of South Asian historiography are most apparent. There simply is no meaningful military history for South Asia before the 11th century. 85 This is partly a function of sources but mostly a result of a historiography which has eschewed military subjects or collapsed geographic and chronological distinctions when it has tackled them. Records of several military campaigns do survive in Kushan period sources (see table 4) though none involve raiding or punitive actions against non-state actors. In several cases the conflict is simply inferred because of a change in the territorial control of the Kushans or some contemporary state, while in others the evidence is a single source providing only the most basic details. Of these the best recorded are the initial Yuezhi migrations, the Tarim Basin, and Gangetic campaigns, though none have the lengthy narratives usually relied on for military history. These will be considered here for what information they give on the use of force in state power. Tab. 4: Military campaigns/conflicts in the Kushan period Date

Conflict(s)

2nd century BCE

Yuezhi migration; conflicts with Xiongnu, Wusun, Sai, and Bactrians.

Mid-1st century CE

Unification of the Yuezhi under Kujula Kadphises and campaigns in Iran, Kapisa/Kabul, Kashmir, and Sind

Late 1st century CE

Expansion of the empire into the Punjab, Haryana, and Uttar Pradesh.

90 CE

Tarim Basin Campaign against Chinese forces

127–137 CE

Gangetic Valley Campaign under Kanishka I

c. 230 CE

Ardashir II’s conquest of Bactria

Late 3rd century CE

Conflicts with the Kushanshah and Sasanians in the Gandhara region

Mid-4 century CE

Kidarite conquest of Kushan controlled Punjab

th

Once the Kushan state was established it may have drawn upon steppe nomads for its own military armies, though it is important to remember that Bactria, the foot-hills of the Hindu Kush, and the valleys of the Pamirs and the Indus were also home to nomadic pastoralists, and could have provided a source of manpower as easily as the steppe belt. 84 Scott 2009: 146–153. 85 The only battle before Peshawar in 1001 CE which has received any serious attention, the Hydaspes in 326 BCE, is studied exclusively from Greek sources, ignoring Indian evidence, and most accounts are derivative of Smith (1914: 68 ff; cf. Sabin 2007: 139–143). This account has been generalised to all of Indian history, leading for example to the erroneous notion that the core of South Asian armies was massed foot archery (Pant 1978). With the exception of Pant’s work which is primarily a descriptive collection of sources most general accounts (see for example Roy 2004) are cursory and uncritical. Central Asia is a little better served but the evidence is still slight and the only general treatment is by Nikonorov (1997: 50–61)

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Unfortunately no evidence for the composition of Kushan armies survives for the best known campaigns, that in the Tarim Basin in 90 CE 86 and in the Gangetic valley in 127– 137 CE. In 90 CE a Chinese general, Ban Chao, who had been operating in the Tarim Basin, reported that he was attacked by the Kushans. 87 According to Ban Chao the dispute had begun in 84 CE, while he was expanding Chinese influence in the West of the Tarim Basin in the region of Kashgar, Khotan, and Yarkand. 88 According to the Chinese account, opposition to Ban Chao was supported by Kangju, a nomadic confederation that held sway over Sogdia. Ban Chao appealed to the Kushans who had ‘established bonds of (royal) marriage with K’ang-chü’ 89 to intervene, which they did. When the Kushans asked for a Han princess in 86 CE in return, he refused, and this led to the conflict. According to the account, unable to defeat Ban Chao directly (for unspecified reasons) the Kushans sought help from Kucha, another Tarim basin state, and ‘horsemen carry gold, silver, pearls and jade’ to persuade Kucha to intercede. 90 It was only after Ban Chao intercepted these envoys that the Kushans retreated. This did not mark the end of Kushan involvement in the region. About twenty-five years later when the king of Kashgar died the Kushans sent troops to remove his son and appoint his uncle to the throne. 91 It is notable that all of this military action seems to revolve around diplomatic relations—with Kashgar, or Kucha, the inciting incident was the result of diplomacy and Ban Chao’s refusal to establish a particular sort of diplomatic relationship. Territorial acquisition, in the sense of the imposition of direct administration, does not seem to have formed part of the campaign. Why? What purpose did these relations and the military expeditions, marriages, and gifts serve? One possibility is that they were self-fulfilling, that they were a necessary part of maintaining the capability for military expeditions and associated diplomacy. For example, a much later Tibetan text ‘The Prophecy of the Li Country’ (Li is the Tarim state of Khotan) describes a military campaign:

86 Zurcher translates the Chinese account (HHS 47/77.7a-7b) as having ‘70,000 horsemen’ though it is unclear if this is simply a general statement of strength or a specific statement of the cavalry composition. 87 Zurcher 1968: 369–370; Falk 2014, 97–100. Chinese sources refer to the Kushan Empire as the Yuezhi throughout their history, but for clarity the term Kushan is used here for the state and Yuezhi for the earlier nomadic confederation. 88 Zurcher (1968: 369) and Falk (2015: 95–96) disagree over whether Ban Chao is fighting against the king of Khotan or against Yarkand when the request is made to the Yuezhi; see also Hill (2009: 415). 89 Zurcher 1968: 369. 90 Zurcher 1968: 370. 91 Zurcher 1968: 369; Hill 2009: section 21, 418; Falk 2015, 110–111. Pulleybank 1995: 422 infers a further Kushan intervention, with an occupation of Shanshan and an uprising of ethnically related people in Gansu in the late 2nd century.

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‘Originally king Ka-ni-ka and the king of Gu-zan and the Li ruler, king Vijayakīrti, and others led an army into India and captured a city named So-ked, on which occasion king Vijayakīrti obtained many śārīras.’ 92 So-ked is undoubtedly Saketa, modern Ayodhya, in North India and the campaign being alluded to is probably the same as that in the Rabatak inscription and on the silver plate of Nokonzok (both discussed above in the section on officials), that took place c. 127–137 CE. It implies that troops in that campaign were drawn from independent kingdoms in the Tarim Basin. Though the official Nokonzok leaves us two records of the Gangetic campaign, its details are unclear. His personal dedication reads, “Then when the of kings, the son of the gods, [returned] from India to Tokhwarstan in the tenth year with the spoils(?) of victory(?)…” 93 This gives an approximate time-frame, but Sims-Williams’ tentative ‘spoils of victory’ should probably be taken as a stock phrase, not a confirmation of the military objectives. In the Rabatak inscription lines 4 through 7 offer a list of six cities, of which four, Saketa, Kauśambi, Paṭaliputra, and Śri-Campā, can be firmly identified. 94 These are arranged west to east and may represent an itinerary, but the nuance of the Bactrian is hard to grasp. In the silver plate Sims-Williams translates ωσπορδο as ‘conquered’ and offers Pahlavi and Khotanese cognates meaning trampled. In the Rabatak inscription for ωσταδο he offers ‘submitted’ and for αγιτα ‘captured’ (with some reticence). 95 The English ‘conquered’ and ‘captured’ imply the acquisition of territory in a way that ‘trampled’ and ‘submitted’ do not, but like ‘spoils of war’ we are safest assuming that these are stock phrases intended to pander to a king’s ego more than communicate subtleties of military campaigns. Certainly the Kushans never established any lasting administration, and there is no evidence that the best known of the local dynasties, the Maghas at Kosam (Kauśambi), even nominally acknowledged Kushan suzerainty. Importantly given the examples above, dating formulas in Magha inscriptions remain stubbornly local. A 5th century Buddhist account seems to preserve a memory of the same campaign. In that, Zurcher 96 translates a ‘punitive expedition against eastern India’. Though other

92 The translation here is from Petech (1968: 244). The text is one of a series of related prophetic texts that survive in Tibetan from as early as the 9th century and may have originally been composed in Khotanese in the seventh (van Schaik 2016: 62–64). 93 Sims-Williams 2015. 94 There are three distinct translations of the inscription by Sims-Williams (1996, 1998, 2004) each accompanied by commentary. Initially Sims-Williams read five city names but later (2004) revised this. The first two cannot be identified with certainty. 95 See Sims-Williams 2004: 60–61. 96 Zurcher (1968: 385). It should be noted that this version of the story is unusual amongst those Zurcher is able to gather, as they generally placed Kanishka’s campaigns elsewhere, in Parthia, Gandhara, and most commonly in the Western Tarim basin.

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possibilities, such as looting, a show of force, a method of consolidating ties with both subordinates and allies who marched with them, are all possibilities. In conclusion, all of this sounds similar to Scott’s characterization of warfare between agrarian states and non-state spaces, with military power being projected far beyond the states capacity for administrative control to loot, punish, or establish ‘friendly’ local rulers, with those same peripheral areas supplying the manpower necessary for military campaigns. Of course here it is happening between states suggesting less of a dichotomy than Scott often implies. Conclusion This concludes an attempt to sketch the structure, administrative control, and military/ diplomatic reach of the Kushan Empire. Though the evidence is slight, it is probably better than for any other pre-7th century state in South and Central Asia. 97 Broadly it suggests that Kushan rule was a mosaic, in some cases highly effective at long distances, in others weak even over short distances. That hard boundaries and borders mixed with situations better understood as points on a map and that power was exercised on a continuum from direct administrative control, through subordination of local administration, and semi-independent kingdoms, to diplomacy, alliance, and the blunt instrument of military force. Though in practice it is usually impossible to establish where any particular location falls in this continuum due to gaps in the evidence. The evidence presented so far suggests that Scott’s thesis that historians are too accepting of the claims made by imperial centres is borne out for the Kushan Empire. However, it also suggests that his dichotomy is too rigid, states are not homogenous but rather diverse, and hill zones, which Scott associates with non-state spaces, can form states (as in the contemporary Indo-Parthian and Parataraja cases). However, at this point we have reached the limit of useful analysis which can be performed by looking from inside the Kushan empire out. It is necessary to sketch briefly what evidence might exist for nonstate spaces in the Kushan period, and at least to consider a few examples. Some Negative Spaces It is possible to begin with a simple literary example, which illustrates Scott’s point fairly clear, literary representations of the forest region of Braj. The eighth avatar of the god Vishnu is the popular folk here Krisha. In legendary accounts of Krishna he was spirited away at his birth in order to protect him from his uncle, Kansa, who ruled in Mathura. Kansa had received a prophecy that his nephew would kill him and attempted to prevent

97 Contrast Sinopoli’s (2001: 162–166) similar account of the contemporary Satavahana dynasty.

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this by murdering all of his sister’s children. 98 After his escape Krishna was raised amongst a tribe of cow-herders in the forest around Mathura, known today as Braj. The Harivamsa is amongst our earliest literary accounts and describes a mobile pastoralist community: “With its brilliant stream of rolling wagons, the camp glittered like the ocean with its rushing, storm-tossed waves. Within a moment’s notice the campsite turned into a desert, bereft of people and utensils, yet filled with bands of crows. At last the herdspeople arrived at the forest of Vrindavan and set up a large camp to accommodate their cows. The camp was laid out in the shape of a half moon.” 99 The account seems similar to Scott’s description of the Keren and their movements in highland Burma. 100 Some care has to be exercised: this is a legendary story usually thought to be written, c. 300 CE, some fifty years after Kushan ruled ended in Mathura, based on myths that were current before their arrival. 101 However, it is clear these stories did circulate in some form under the Kushans, 102 and even if affected by literary tropes, reflected or informed their audiences understanding of forest peoples. And it is the perception of geography that interests us. The geography of Braj is an early modern creation, 103 but it is clear in even the earliest strata of the story available to us that the tribe lives quite close to the city—Krishna can be spirited away in the night, he can return on foot, Kansa can easily dispatch monsters to destroy him. And yet Kansa has no authority to demand that the chief, Nanda, turn over Krishna, and is reduced to punitive raids (in the literary form of demons) which these pastoralists thwart by relocation, or Krishna’s miraculous intervention. It is not necessary to go as far as seeing Kansa as a metaphor for Kushan rule, or assuming Nanda or his tribe preserve the memory of some real people, to suggest that a Mathuran audience would find it plausible that a king, or his local satrapal representative (the situation under the Kushans), would exercise practical authority not much further than a day’s march from the city gates. So here at least forest peoples, or pastoralists, seem to fit well into Scott’s model. Recalcitrant, resistant to organisation (Nanda’s authority seems far short of absolute), prone to a flight response to resist state encroachment, but also symbiotically connected with their agrarian neighbours (as traders or a space of po-

98 The motifs involved are widespread, see Bernardo (2005: 408). Whether such common motifs are the result of the rapid dissemination of story elements in all ages; common descent from some proto-story ancestor in an Indo-European heartland, or simply narrative responses to common human experiences is unclear. 99 Lorenz 2007: 104. 100 Scott 2009: 218. 101 Bryant 2007: 5–6. 102 Hein (1986) actually argues for the formation of the story in the 3rd century CE under Kushan rule but as he is unfamiliar with the political chronology does not make the connection explicit. 103 Vaudeville 1976.

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litical refuge). 104 Though it does not tell us how typical or atypical such a situation was in the Kushan period. The Yuezhi Migrations and Nomadic Confederations as Non-state Spaces Scott does not discuss the nomadic pastoralist societies of the steppe regions directly. He makes several references to ‘cossacks’, 105 ‘Jinggis Khan’, 106 and Chinese relations with nomads. 107 These suggest that he thinks that these societies shared the same basic characteristics as forest dwelling pastoralists like Krishna’s relatives, or the hill people he studies, and in general he argues that mobile people are not ‘administratively legible’, 108 so by definition state resistant. This is logical as his arguments for secondary formations of hill society resulting from lowland pressure are superficially similar to arguments that nomadic confederations formed political units, ‘shadow empires’, 109 only in response to actions by agrarian states. It would be ideal, but impractical, to review the historiography of Inner Asian nomadism here, 110 because it is through this lens, and Chinese sources that our best documented migration of nomadic people in the Kushan studies, is understood. However, in lieu of that, I will simply state I am unconvinced by the applicability of models from either the ancient Chinese frontier or modern anthropology, to the significantly different geograph104 Reactions of settled populations to outsiders, including forest or hill groups elsewhere in ancient India are discussed by Parasher (1991). There is a significant literature on modern pastoralists, often living as marginalised peoples. However, I have been reluctant to include such ethnographic data as it is often read anachronistically on the assumption of unchanging distributions of population—see for example Varma (2006) and Morrison and Junker (2002) who discuss these problems at length and Robbins (1998) account of how the degree of nomadic pastoralism in modern Rajasthan has significantly increase in modern times. 105 Scott 2009: 25, 260, 393 no. 50–52. 106 Scott 2009: 257. 107 Scott 2009: 110, 360 n. 20. 108 Scott 2009: 92. 109 Barfield 2001. 110 The touch-stone for this historiography is Owen Lattimore’s Inner Asian Frontiers and China published in 1940, which is seen to reinforce the notion of nomads as predatory, or parasitic (Wilbur 1940). The most critical review I am aware of is Schultheis (1941), whose criticisms are surprising similar in tone to critiques of other, later, theoretical models of nomads. In response to this, theories of steppe nomads began to see them as secondary state formations, responding to and symbiotic with agrarian societies, Barfield (1989), often drawing on modern anthropology of nomads. The shadow empire hypothesis has subsequently been criticised (for example di Cosmo 2002) with arguments that nomadic political structures were largely an internal development, independent of settled neighbours, and that apparent Chinese similarity is the result of Chinese writers describing in their own terms. nomadic institutions in terms they understood. There have been highly critical reviews of all of these positions, Psarras (2007) (1992), and Dunnell (1991). The debate has often become vitriolic (Psarras 2007), but reading past this there is much useful insight into the problems of theorising nomads through the texts of their settled neighbours.

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ic and historical situation found from Sogdia, through Bactria, into Northern India. And for reasons I will sketch briefly I am doubtful about the applicability of Scott’s ideas on ‘hill peoples’ to the nomadic pastoralists principally described in our sources—though I am also doubtful how representative those groups are of steppe nomads as a whole. Chinese writers in the 1st and 2nd century CE understood the Kushan dynasty to be descended from the leaders of a nomadic tribal confederation, the Yuezhi, which originally inhabited the Gansu region to the Northwest of China, though only a single steppe type burial of the Kushan period has been found, at Tillya-Tepe 111. In the early 2nd century BCE the Yuezhi were defeated by another confederation, the Xiongnu, and subsequently migrated westwards. Most reconstructions have them take up residence in the Ili basin, though a route further south along the Northern silk route is also possible. Here, they displace a group the Chinese call the Sai. The Sai in turn were driven to the south where they established control of regions in Gandhara/Bactria. Following a subsequent conflict, possibly with the Wusun, the Yuezhi moved into Daxia, usually taken to be Bactria. Chinese accounts claim they were divided into five ‘yabgu’ and subsequently re-united by Kujula Kadphises who founded the Kushan Empire. 112 Chinese sources agree in broad terms on these events but not in detail. As they are also condensed summary accounts this has led to a variety of theories on the migrations. Broadly, scholarly opinion on the route of the Yuezhi divides in two, either assuming that they passed through mountainous regions to enter Bactria directly from the northeast, or that they moved through the steppe and Sogdia to approach Bactria from the west. Opinions on the people referred to as Sai are similarly diverse. Some authors have them pushed ahead of the Kushans and then either migrate through Sind to ultimately reach western India where they found the Western Satrap kingdom in the 1st century CE, or pass through Bactria ahead of the Kushans into Gandhara. Others argue that the Sai move south through the Tarim Basin and the Pamir mountains into the Upper Indus Valley. 113 What is of interest there is that in the early 1st century BCE coins in the style of 111 Excavated in the late 1970s the burial is rich enough to represent a nomadic leader (Sarianidi 1980; 1985) variously attributed to the Yuezhi (Rubinson 2008), Aral Sea Saka (Pugachenkova & Rempel 1991: 24), Sarmatians (Treister 1998: 38) or Xiougnu (Francfort 2012: 89). Whether subject to Kushan rule, and the burial lies just a few hundred miles south west of the Kushan centre of Balkh, there is no question, as Kushan coins were found in the burial that it belongs to that period (Zeymal 1999). 112 The Chinese sources and different theories on the migration are discussed at length by Craig Benjamin (2007). The best account of the Chinese sources in English remains that of Zürcher (1968), though a more recent French translation (Thierry 2005) is very useful. Falk (2015) presents the same sources but extracted and rearranged in a tentative chronological order. The bulk of the relevant archaeology, discussed in part by Benjamin, is published in Russian, for an English language summary see Enoki et al. 1994. 113 Senior (2000–2006, 7–16) argues for all three routes being used by different groups, who were all ethnically Sai. Pulleybank (1970) favours the Sogdian route based on Chinese sources. Litvinskij (2002), Jettmar (2002), and Neelis (2007), all working on the rock art and burials of the Upper Indus and Pamirs favour a route through this region though the argument also depends on collapsing temporal distinctions—see particularly the notes on 3rd/4th century BCE cauldrons in Litvinskij (2002: 134, 143).

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Fig. 9: Migrations of Yuezhi and conquests of Kujula (white) and migrations of the Sai (red)

Indo-Greek kings begin to appear, but without portraits and with distinctly non-Greek names. The first of these kings is called Maues, and it is plausible that Maues was a Sai warlord or king who took over part of the Indo-Greek kingdoms in Gandhara. 114 These various possibilities are depicted in figure 9. The important point here is the frequency of flight responses in the sources. The Xiongnu, and subsequently the Wusun, are described as attempting to subdue or incorporate the Yuezhi into their confederations. They must have been partially successful as the Chinese confirm that many Sai and Yuezhi, presumably here an ethnonym rather than a political designation, continued to live amongst the Wusun. 115 The Kushans in turn attempted, at least territorially to incorporate the Indo-Parthians. All of these attempts provoked flight responses, the Yuezhi from Xiongnu, then the Wusun, the Sai from the Yuezhi, the Indo-Parthians from the Kushans. And those flights are frequently highland ones, into the Ili Basin, through the Pamirs, or the foothills of Afghanistan. However this flight differs from that discussed by Scott. In a long chapter ‘Keeping the State at a Distance: The Peopling of the Hills’ 116 Scott gives various reasons for flight. In almost all cases he associates flight with ‘state evasion’ 117, a deliberate attempt not to 114 The numismatic evidence, collected by Senior (2000–2006), is of no help, the eight hoards (vol. I 173, 179–181 and vol. IV 87, 91, 151) containing the earliest types (Maues and the Vonones groups) also contain later coins so were closed, and therefore deposited, after all movements were complete, giving no sense of the geography of the early Indo-Scythian kingdoms. 115 Benjamin 2007: 120. 116 Scott 2009: 127–177. 117 Scott 2009: 174.

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be incorporated in any state. The Yuezhi and Sai retain, or at least appear to, their own elite organisation, and according to the Chinese sources subsequently found new states, the Kushan empire, the various Indo-Scythian states, and the Western Satraps. It seems these people are not resistant to forming political units per se but to being incorporated in some-one else’s state. And it is possible these flights represent political elites, and possibly their heavy cavalry retinues (which are depicted in Indo-Parthian and Kushan art), rather than large confederations. 118 Hills All of which brings us to the high-altitude terrain, the hill peoples. Various figures (Figs. 3–7, 9) have been presented so far, each with elements super-imposed on a satellite image, so as to keep the geography, which is so important in Scott’s thesis, always in view. As they indicate the Kushan Empire can be thought of as a long line passing between several ranges of mountains and over the major range of the Hindu Kush, incorporating valleys such as Kashmir, and possibly Swat. The foothills and smaller valleys at the edges of these mountain ranges are the sort of fractured, high friction, terrain that in recent times has resisted state control and might accommodate non-state spaces. Moving east and north from the plains of Peshawar, Punjab, and Haryana, the geography is dictated by the valleys cut by the tributaries of the Indus River. Initially the valleys are separated by rolling hills often topped with woodland. Once the valley floors rise above approximately 2000m the geography changes. Valleys become narrower with steeper sides separated by mountainous peaks which are largely impassable. The valleys alternate between wide floors of fertile land and narrow passes which allow movement but are not amenable to settlement. Some of these form parts of routes that connect the Tarim Basin with Afghanistan and Northern Pakistan, while others are side valleys of little value as thoroughfares. Since the late 1970s surveys have recorded petroglyphs at various sites, especially along the upper Indus. 119 This rock-art is particularly interesting because it is often accompanied by graffiti, often just names, which has allowed those studying it to develop chronol118 Nikonorov (1997) covers this in detail, in particular representations on Kushan coins, Indo-Parthian coins, Mathuran art Sharma 1995: fig. 34, at the Kushan palace of Kalchayan (Pugachenkova et al. 1994: fig. 11–15) all show similar heavy cavalry technologies. By contrast images of horse archery in Gandhara (Ghose 2003: fig.12–14) seem to come primarily from the post-Kushan period. 119 The work on the Indus rock art has been extensively publish in the volumes of Antiquities of Pakistan, the first volume in 1989, and the Materialien zur Archäologie der Nordgebiete Pakistans, the first volume in 1994. As of this writing at least 14 volumes in those series had been published. Like administrative documents and Buddhist scrolls first discovered in the 1990s these represent ongoing publications of very large bodies of material. It will no doubt take many decades to integrate this into the historiography of the region. For the most part this section depends on work of Karl Jettmar (2002) and the thesis of Jason Neelis, published in expanded form as Neelis 2011. Though the upper Indus has been most intensively studied its rock art does not appear to be exceptional

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Fig. 10: A family tree illustrating some common north Indian and Gandharan naming practices

ogies for at least some of the major sites. Most of the petroglyphs are images but a minority are inscriptions, and those are probably mostly made by travellers, possibly traders. For example, Sogdian traders left nearly 500 inscriptions at the site of Shatial bridge, of which this example is unusually long but fairly typical in motivation: ‘I, Nanēvandak, (son of) Narisaf, have come on (the) ten(th day) (?) and (have) begged (as) a boon from the spirit of the sacred place, K’rt, that … I may arrive (home) more quickly and may see (my) brother in good (health) with joy.’ 120 Travellers, even merchants, required guides. Local guides would know which side of the river provided the easiest going, crossing points, when passes were safe to navigate, appropriate places to shelter, etc. The interaction between local guides and the graffiti habits of Indian travellers has left a trace of local people, particularly names varying on palola or ending in -otta. 121 Names are useful in this period because we know families followed common naming conventions. To illustrate this see figure 10 which reconstructs a family tree from a copper sheet inscription at Taxila (CKI #171), c. 90 CE. Note how Cadrabhi’s sons names both begin with a sibilant, Śama and Saita, while her daughter is named after her grandfather, Dhrama, and her grand-daughter shares a name component, nadi, with her brother. 122 or unique, as studies of the Swat valley (Vidale & Olivieri 2002; Olivieri & Vidale 2004; Olivieri 2008), Northwestern Himalayas (Thakur 2008), and Sind (Kalharo 2013) indicate. 120 Jettmar 2002: 112. 121 The first presumably etymologically connected to the later state of Palur, for which see Jettmar 2002: 118 ff. 122 The classic work on Indian naming conventions (Hilka 1910) also points up connections between particular names and caste conventions not relevant to us here. For an example of its application see Strauch (2012: 351–360).

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So the intrusion of the elements palola and -otta in graffiti, which do not occur in names in the areas from which travellers began (Sogdia, North India, Gandhara, the Tarim Basin) must be local guides, and the distinctiveness of their names suggests a stratum of ethnically distinct people, possibly living by mixed agriculture in the many side valleys. 123 If, in the 2nd to 5th centuries CE, these guides were descendants of 2nd century BCE Sai nomads, they are not recognisable as such. 124 Though there are occasional finds of inscriptions which mention a Kushan emperor, these reflect the travellers, and despite the passage of armies during the Tarim Basin campaign and possibly the Gangetic campaign (see above) this hints that Scott’s characterization of hill peoples might apply here. Some confirmation is given in a passage of the Chinese Hou Han Shu (roughly of the Kushan period) which describes travel in the region as follows: “All the cases in which we have sent envoys to escort visitors back have been due to our wish to provide them with defensive protection against the danger of robbery. But starting in the area south of P’i-shan, one passes through some four or five states which are not subject to Han… some of the states may be poor or small and unable to provide supplies, and some may be refractory and unwilling to do so.” 125 However, it is important to avoid geographical determinism or assumptions of continuity. The region has been state resistant in recent centuries, and may have been equally troublesome under the Kushans, but from the late sixth through to the early 8th century the well-organised Palur (or Balor) state did not just control this region but was centred on it, and Jettmar concludes its ‘basis must have been a dense sedentary population’. 126 Conclusions This paper has traced the limited evidence that exists for Kushan administration, for the practical exercise of Kushan authority, and the even more limited evidence for projection of power through military force. It has also cursorily touched upon three distinct geo123 Jettmar (2002: 45 ff.) began his career as an anthropologist and his comments on the modern population are worth quoting in full: ‘The population in the side-valleys of the Indus was organized in separate, formerly autonomous political units. Gor, Chilas, Tangir, and Darel were the most important “republics” bordering the principalities such as Hunza, Nager, and Punyal in the northern part of the former Gilgit-Agency. They were considered part of Yaghistan—the ‘land of rebellion and freedom’, where resistance against any kind of centralized government imposing law and order was even more pronounced than elsewhere.’ 124 Linguistically Iranian names are associated with Indo-Scythian coins, and some inscriptions in Gandhara and Mathura. These are distinct from the names on Indo-Parthian coins (Gondophares, etc) which are shared with the Parthian dynasty or the Western Ksatrap kings of West India who adopt entirely Indian naming practices. 125 Jettmar 2002: 174. 126 Jettmar 2002: 184.

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graphic examples which might be suspected to contain non-state spaces—the steppes, forest regions, and the ‘hill people’ of the Upper Indus. Not only does the evidence lack granularity, requiring us to make assumptions or marry geographically or chronologically disparate data to make a reconstruction, it is also limited by the various historiographies. With that caveat clearly stated, what does this evidence have to tell us about the limits of Kushan power, and in particular the non-state spaces of Scott’s thesis? The first point is that Scott is quite correct that historians tend to over-state, often dramatically, the bounds of settled imperial states. The Kushan Empire, at least in terms of routine administrative control, was never as large as it is conventionally taken to have been. There is some evidence of a physical reality to its borders, though no simple dichotomy existed; instead there was likely a patchwork of different administrations, subordinate rulers, and influence. Its capacity to project military force far beyond its borders—for plunder, punitive raids, or to place friendly rulers on the thrones of other kingdoms was considerable, but that was never equivalent to its direct administrative rule. In this sense Scott’s challenge to think much more critically about the realities of ancient states is extremely valuable. The second point is that there is suggestive evidence for Scott’s non-state spaces. Looked at critically it is quite surprising how much space seems to fall between ancient states, and how much space, from the forested regions around Mathura to the Indus valleys, gives us some hints of the kind of resistant, ethnically diverse, hard to administer spaces Scott is arguing for. Unfortunately, even where clear evidence of administration survives (at Sanghol for example) evidence for the political affiliation of that administration is often absent. So in conclusion Scott’s main argument, that most territory and people fell outside states in the pre-modern world is at least plausible, if un-provable for the Kushan period. The third point is that, as some reviewers have argued, Scott significantly over-states his case. He draws too sharp a distinction between agrarian states and their neighbours, imagining far too much homogeneity in both categories 127 (particularly chapter 8). The ancient agrarian states in the Kushan period were more diverse than Scott allows for; with highland Paratarajas, ‘republican’ Yaudheya, the oasis states of Sogdia and the Tarim basin, co-existing with the Kushans and other more ‘conventional’ polities. Likewise, the implicit extension of his arguments for hill peoples to other non-agrarian groups does not survive close scrutiny. If the nomadic confederations of the steppe are politically distinct from the agrarian states they seem to be at least as distinct from forest and hill peoples. Some nomadic units are clearly quite resilient over long periods, and as has been seen with the Yuezhi and Sai (see above) flight responses can be as much a desire to retain state structures as a resistance to them. The spaces around the Kushans were occupied by a wide variety of state-like formations, and probably also by an equally wide variety of non-state peoples. I think it is likely 127 Scott 2009.

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only a small fraction of these fit either Scott’s presentation of the centralised agrarian state, or his presentation of small, ethnically fluid, state-resistant non-agrarian societies. However, the challenge Scott offers, to rethink how we imagine political order in the pre-modern world, is important. It is clear that Kushan historiography has not given us a good picture of the administrative and political realities that contemporaries lived under, and the lines historians draw on maps risk stepping into the realm of fiction. Scott’s paradigm is not a solution, but it is a set of ideas whose careful and critical application might bring new insights into the Kushan period. Bibliography Kharoshthi inscriptions have a single unified database, the Corpus of Kharoshthi Inscriptions (https://www.gandhari.org). The database gives comprehensive references and numbers prefixed CKI refer to that database. As no equivalent database exists for Brahmi or Bactrian inscriptions these are given individual references in the text. Bailey, H.W. 1980. “A Kharoṣṭrī Inscription of Seṇavarma, King of Oḍi” The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland 1: 21–29 Ball, W. and Gardin, J.C. 1982. Archaeological Gazetteer of Afghanistan. Paris. Barfield, T.J. 1989. The Perilous Frontier: Nomadic Empires and China, 221 BC–AD 1757. Cambridge. —. 2001. “The Shadow Empires: Imperial State Formation Along the Chinese Nomad Frontier” In Empires, edited by Alcock, S.E, D’Altroy, T.E, Morrison, K.D. and Sinopoli, C.M., 10–41. Cambridge. —. 2004. “Review of Ancient China and its Enemies: The Rise of Nomadic Power in East Asia” by Nicola Di Cosmo’ T’oung Pao, Second Series, Vol. 89, Fasc. 4/5: 458–466 Basham, A.L. 1968. Papers on the Date of Kaniska. Leiden. Basu, A., Sarkar-Roy, N. and Majumdar, P.P. 2016. “Genomic Reconstruction of the History of Extant Populations of India Reveals Five Distinct Ancestral Components and a Complex Structure” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 113/6: 1594–1599. Baums, S. 2012. “Catalog and Revised Texts and Translations of Gandharan Reliquary Inscriptions” In Gandharan Buddhist Reliquaries, edited by Jongeward, D., Errington, E., Salomon, R. and Baums, S., 200–252. Seattle. Benjamin, C. 2007. The Yuezhi (Silk Road Studies XIV). Brepols. Bernardo, S.M. 2005. “Abandoned or Murdered Children” In Archetypes and Motifs in Folklore and Literature: A Handbook, edited by Garry, J. and El-Shamy, H., 408. Oxford. Bracey, R. 2011 “Kankali Tila and Kushan Chronology” In Felicitas: Essays in Numismatics, Epigraphy & History in Honour of Joe Cribb, edited by Bhandare, S., and Garg, S., 65–80. Mumbai. —. 2012a. “Policy, Patronage, and the Shrinking Pantheon of the Kushans” In Glory of the Kushans: Recent Discoveries and Interpretations, edited by Jayaswal, V., 197–217. New Dehli. —. 2012b. “The Mint Cities of the Kushan Empire” In The City and the Coin in the Ancient and Early Medieval Worlds, edited by López Sánchez, F., 117–132. Oxford.

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Lüders, H. 1912. A List of Brahmi Inscriptions from the earliest times to about A.D. 400 with the exception of those of Asoka. Calcutta. —. 1937–1938. “Seven Brahmi Inscriptions from Mathura and Its Vicinity” Epigraphia Indica XXIV: 194–210. —. 1937. “Seven Brahmi Inscriptions” Epigraphia Indica 24: 194–211. —. 1961. Mathura Inscriptions. Göttingen. MacDowall, D.W., Ibrahim, M. 1978. “Pre-Islamic Coins in Kandahar Museum” Afghan Studies 1: 67–77. —. 1979. “Pre-Islamic Coins in Herat Museum” Afghan Studies 2: 45–53. Margabandhu, C. 2010. “Planning and Development of the Kushan Settlement at Sanghol” In Sanghol and the Archaeology of the Punjab, edited by Ray, H.P., 106–127. New Delhi. Mattingly, H. 1917. “The Mints of the Early Empire” The Journal of Roman Studies 7: 59–70. Michon, D. 2010. “The Excavations at Sanghol in Context” In Sanghol and the Archaeology of the Punjab, edited by Ray, H.P., 69–77. New Delhi. —. 2015. Archaeology and Religion in Early Northwest India: History, Theory, and Practice. Routledge. Mirashi, V.V. 1955. Inscriptions of the Kalachuri-Chedi Era. Ootacamund. —. 1981. The History and Inscriptions of the Sātavāhanas and the Western Kshatrapas. Bombay. Morrison, K.D. 2001. “Sources, Approaches, Definitions” In Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History, edited by Alcock, S.E., D’Altroy, T.N., Morrison, K.D. and Sinopoli, C.M., 1–9. Cambridge. Morrison, K.D. and Junker, L.L. (Eds.). 2002. Foragers-Traders in South and Southeast Asia: Long Term Histories. Cambridge. Mukherjee, B.N. 1960. “A Reference to a Scythian Tribe in an Indian Source” Journal of the Asiatic Society 21/3–4: 53–54. Naveh, J. and Shaken, S. 2012. Aramaic Documents from Ancient Bactria from the Khalili Collections. London. Neelis, J. 2001. Early Buddhist Transmission and Trade Networks: Mobility and Exchange. PhD [a revised version published as Neelis, J. 2011. Early Buddhist Transmission and Trade Networks: Mobility and Exchange within and beyond the Northwestern Borderlands of South Asia. Leiden]. —. 2007. “Passages to India: Śaka and Kuṣāṇa Migrations in Historical Contexts” In On the Cusp of an Era: Art in the Pre-Kuṣāṇa World, edited by Srinivasan, D.M., 55–93. Leiden. Litvinskij, B.A. 2002. “Copper Cauldrons from Gilgit and Central Asia: More about Saka and Dards and Related Problems” East and West 52/1: 127–149. Nikonorov, V.P. 1997. The Armies of Bactria 700 BC–450 AD, 2 vols. Stockport. Olivelle, P. 2005. Manu’s Code of Law: A Critical Edition and Translation of the Mānava-Dharmásāstra. New York. —. 2013. King, Governance, and Law in Ancient India: Kautilya’s Arthashastra. New York. Olivieri, L.M. 2008. “Hanging and ‘Intoxicating Drinks’: The Rock Art Sequence of the Swat Valley” South Asian Studies 24: 15–24. Olivieri, L.M. and Vidale, M. 2004. “Beyond Gogdara I: New Evidence of Rock Carvings and Rock Artefacts from the Kandak Valley and Adjacent Areas (Swat, Pakistan)” East and West 54/1.4: 121–180.

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Pagel, U. 2014. Buddhist Monks in Tax Disputes: Monastic Attitudes towards Revenue Collection in Ancient India. Napoli. Pant, G.N. 1978. Indian Archery. Delhi. Parasher, A. 1991. Mlecchas in Early India. New Dehli. Petech, L. 1968. “Kashmiri and Tibetan Materials on the Date of Kaniṣka” In Papers on the Date of Kaniska, edited by Basham, A.L., 244–246. Leiden. Podushkin, A.N. 2012. “A Contribution to the Kangju Ethnic History, 2nd Century BC–1st Century AD (Based on the Materials from the Orlat and Kultobe Cemeteries)” Stratum plus 4: 31–55. Prasad, P.C. 1977. Foreign Trade and Commerce in Ancient India. New Delhi. Psarras, S.-K. 1992. “Review of The Perilous Frontier by Barfield” Early China 17: 239–245. —. 2007 “Review of Ancient China and its Enemies by Di Cosmo” Early China 31: 227–259. Pugachenkova, G.A. and Rempel, L.I. 1991. “Gold from Tillia-tepe” Bulletin of the Asia Institute. New Series 5: 11–25. Pugachenkova, G.A., Dar, S.R., Sharma, R.C., Joyenda, M.A. and Siddiqi, H. 1994. “Kushan Art” In History of civilizations of Central Asia II, edited by Harmatta, J., 323–385. Paris. Pulleybank, E. 1970. “The Wu-Sun and Sakas and the Yüeh-Chih Migration” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and Studies 33/1: 154–160 [reprinted in Pulleybank, E.G. 2002. Central Asia and Non-Chinese Peoples of Ancient China. Ashgate]. Puri, B.N. 1994. “The Kushans” In History of Civilizations of Central Asia II, edited by Harmatta, J., 247–264. Paris. Quintanilla, S.R. 2007. History of Early Stone Sculpture at Mathura, ca. 150 BCE–100 CE. Leiden. Rajgor, D. and Jha, A. 1994. Studies in the Coinage of the Western Ksatrapas. Nashik. Radjush, O.A. 2014. “On the Northern Extremity of So-Called Daggers with Cutouts” Stratum plus 4: 231–245. Rangarajan, L.N. 1987. The Arthashastra. London. Robbins, P. 1998. “Nomadization in Rajasthan, India: Migration, Institutions, and Economy” Human Ecology 26/1: 87–112. Rogers, J.D. 2012. “Inner Asian States and Empires: Theories and Synthesis” Journal of Archaeologically Research 20/3: 205–256. Roy, K. 2004. From Hydaspes to Kargil: A History of Warfare in India from 326 BC to AD 1999. New Dehli. Rosenfield, J. 1967. The Dynastic Art of the Kushans. Berkeley. Rtveladze, E.V. 1993/1994. “Coins of the Yuezhi Rulers of Northern Bactria” Silk Road Art and Archaeology 3: 81–96. Rubinson, K.S. 2008. “Tillya Tepe: Aspects of Gender and Cultural Identity” In Are All Warriors Male? Gender Roles on the Ancient Eurasian Steppe, edited by Linduff, K.M. and Rubinson, K.S., 51–66. Lanham. Sabin, Ph. 2009. Lost Battles: Reconstructing the Great Clashes of the Ancient World. London. Sadan, M. 2009. “Review of The Art of Not Being Governed, Scott”Reviews in History. http:// www.history.ac.uk/reviews/review/903 (consulted January 2017). Sahni, B. 1945. The Technique of Casting Coins in Ancient India. Bombay. Salomon, R. 1974. “The Kṣatrapas and Mahākṣatrapas of India” Wiener Zeitschrift für die Kunde Südasiens 18: 5–25.

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—. 2015. “A New Bactrian Inscription from the Time of Kanishka” In Kushan Histories: Literary Sources and Selected Papers from a Symposium at Berlin, December 5 to 7, 2013, Bremen, edited by Falk, H., 255–264. Bremen. Sinopoli, C.M. 2001. “On the Edge of Empire: Form and Substance in the Satavahana Dynasty” In Empires: Perspectives from Archaeology and History, edited by Alcock, S.E., D’Altroy, T.N, Morrison, K.D. and Sinopoli, C.M., 155–178. Cambridge. Sircar, D.C. 1942. Select Inscriptions Bearing on Indian History. Calcutta. —. 1963–1964. “More Brahmi Inscriptions” Epigraphia Indica 35: 189–192. —. 1965. Select Inscriptions Bearing on Indian History and Civilization, 3 vols. Calcutta. Stein, M.A. 1900. Kalhaṇa’s Rājataraṅgiṇī: A Chronicle of the Kings of Kaśmīr. Reprinted. Delhi. Strauch, I. (Ed.). 2012. Foreign Sailors on Socotra: The Inscriptions and Drawings from the Cave Hoq. Bremen. Thakur, L.S. 2008. “Bonpos of the Western Himalaya” South Asian Studies 24: 27–36. Thierry, F. 2005. “Yuezhi et Kouchans Pièges et dangers des sources chinoises” In Afghanistan ancien carrefour entre l’Est et l’Ouest, edited by Bopearachchi, O. and Boussac, M.-F., 421–539. Brepols. Treister, M.Y. 1998. “New Discoveries of Sarmatian Complexes of the 1st Century A.D. A Survey of Publications in VDI” Ancient Civilizations from Scythia to Siberia 4/1: 35–100. Vaissière, É. de la (with Ph. Marquis, J. Bendezu-Sarmiento). 2015. “A Kushan Military Camp near Bactra,” In Kushan Histories. Literary Sources and Selected Papers from a Symposium at Berlin, December 5th to 7th, 2013, edited by Falk, H., 241–254. Bremen. Varma, S. 2006. “Ethnography as Ethnoarchaeology: A Review of Studies in the Ethnoarchaeology of South Asia” in Past and Present: Ethnoarchaeology in India, edited by Sengupta, G., Roychoudhry, S. and Son, S., 27–42. New Dehli. Vaudeville, Ch. 1976. “Braj, Lost and Found” Indo-Iranian Journal 18/3.4: 195–213. Vidale, M. and Olivieri, L.M. 2002. “Painted Rock Shelters of the Swat Valley: Further Discoveries and New Hypotheses” East and West 52/1: 173–223. Vogel, J. 1905–1906. “Epigraphical Discoveries at Sarnath” Epigraphia Indica 8: 166–179. Wasserstein, D.J. 1993. “Coins as Agents of Cultural Definition in Islam” Poetics Today 14/2: 302–322. Wilbur, C. M. 1940 “Review of Lattimore Inner Asian Frontiers and China Source” Pacific Affairs 13/4: 498–501. Willis, M. 2005. “Later Gupta History: Inscriptions, Coins and Historical Ideology” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 15/2: 131–150. Zeymal, E.V. 1999. “Tillya-Tepe Within the Context of the Kushan Chronology” In Coins, Art, and Chronology Vol. I, edited by Alram, M. and Klimburg-Salter, D., 239–244. Vienna. Zürcher, E. 1968. “The Yüeh-chih and Kaniṣka in the Chinese sources” In Papers on the Date of Kaniṣka, edited by Basham, A.L., 346–390. Leiden.

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Vihāras in the Kushan Empire Christopher I. Beckwith

The traditional image of “Early Buddhism” is characterized by a striking individuality and the lack of a social consciousness. Among the earliest attested practitioners of the late 4th century BCE, the “forest śramaṇas” were solitary, but the “town śramaṇas” were involved in helping people, and stayed overnight in patron’s houses. Nevertheless, there was no Buddhist community like the later Saṃgha, and śramaṇas were not monks. It was still un-organized non-monastic Buddhism; monasteries and monks (bhikṣus) did not yet exist. 1 Then in the 1st to 2nd centuries CE developed Buddhist monasteries appear in Kushan northwestern India as well as in North China, a culture just outside the sphere of influence of the Kushan Empire, accompanied by written texts and historical references. It is “Normative Buddhism” – fully developed organized later Buddhism, with the triratna, monks, devotion to Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, karma, rebirth, etc.: more or less the entire tradition known to us, except for the Vinayas, all of which have been shown to date to the 5th century CE. 2 The central institution of Normative Buddhist culture is the Buddhist monastery, or vihāra. The importance of the monastery for a society dominated by Buddhism is so crucial that we must spend a few minutes on what exactly the early monastery was, and what it was called. The early Buddhist monastery first appears as a completely developed complex thing, with many special features: –

Its most important building, the raison d’être of the monastery as a whole, has a highly distinctive architectual design known as the “cloister plan”. In Buddhist archaeological contexts it is known as the “vihāra plan”. It was designed to house a medium-sized group of regimented monks in identical, tiny cells—the opposite of Early Buddhist individuality. The standard plan consists of a rectangular structure with a heavy exterior wall and one entrance. From the outside it is easily mistaken for a fort. The interior is dominated by an open rectangular courtyard (in some cases occupied largely by a rectangular pool) surrounded by a colonnaded or arcaded walkway or “veranda”. The entire structure between the veranda and the exterior wall, all the way around except for the lone entryway, consists of more or less identical cells, each housing one monk. A kitchen and other functional rooms are also attached to

1 Beckwith 2015. 2 Schopen 2004: 94.

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the cloister. Evidently because of the central importance of the cloister building, the vihāra proper, the monastery complex as a whole early came to be called a vihāra in many languages. It was a particular kind of legal entity—an endowed, tax-free institution with inheritable ownership. 3 It was the locus for religious veneration of Buddhist relics in an associated stūpa (a Buddhist caitya or ‘reliquary’) that sometimes occupied part of the vihāra courtyard. The vihāra was also the first college, the direct ancestor—via the medieval Islamic madrasa 4 – of our modern university, as recently shown in detail. 5

The monastery was thus not a “generic” institution or architectural form. The residential quarter of all early Buddhist monasteries found so far follows the same unique plan, the “cloister plan” or vihāra plan, which is highly distinctive and can hardly be confused with anything else. Its later Central Asian form, the “four-īwān” plan, dating from about the 5th or 6th century on, is best known from the site of Adzhina-Tepa in what is now southwestern Tajikistan. 6 Both halves of the Adzhina Тера ensemble were built according to the same plan, with allowances madе for the purpose of еасh. The monastery part was arranged on the four sides of а square court (19 × 19 m), with four deep īwān vestibules of identical size in the centre of each side. The īwāns wеге connected bу elbow-shaped corridors which had exits leading into the соurt. 7 Further detailed notes on the monastery plan, discussion connecting details of the vihāra plan precisely with those of the madrasa plan, and its history, are given by Litvinsky and Zeimal’. 8 In studies of Islamic architecture the design is known as the madrasa plan, as in the Madrasa of Ulugh Beg in Samarkand, the Madrasa Mādar-i Shāh in Isfahan, and many others. The Western European variant, the cloister plan, for example at Oxford and in many late medieval and Renaissance-period monasteries, is a “no-īwān” version, telling us that it derives ultimately from the early vihāra plan, and that this “monastic” version undoubtedly derives directly from Near Eastern monasteries.

3 Schopen 2004: 219–259; Van Bladel 2010. 4 Already Barthold (1964: 30, originally published in 1918) noted that the madrasa was simply an Islamicized vihāra. Archaeology done since his time has proven him to be right; cf. the following note. 5 The early monastery/college was the locus of the Buddhist invention of the early literary “scientific method”, the recursive argument method sometimes referred to by its Medieval Latin name quaestiones disputatae ‘disputed questions’, which like the college was introduced to Western Europe from the Islamic world in the second half of the 12th century (Beckwith 2012). 6 Litvinsky and Zeimal’ 1971: 27–28. 7 Litvinsky and Zeimal’ 1971: 221. 8 Litvinsky and Zeimal’ 1971: 224–225.

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The word vihāra is not the earliest attested word for the ‘monastery-college’. Early Chinese texts seem to be unaware of the term vihāra, and the early Gāndhārī manuscripts do not mention it either. Aramaic dērā ‘monastery’ is attested in several Late Old Chinese transcriptions, one of which is 寺 (in Modern Mandarin pronunciation sì), the earliest attested word for ‘Buddhist monastery’, 9 all representing a borrowed word *dēra. 10 It was transmitted to East Asia by foreign Buddhist teachers and translators in China, of whom the earliest known historically are the 2nd century CE Parthians An Shih-kao 安世高 (‘the Arsacid Shih-kao’) and An Hsüan 安玄 (‘the Arsacid Hsüan’). 11 The administrative language of the Parthian Empire was heavily Iranicized late Imperial Aramaic written in Aramaic script. 12 Aramaic dērā is well attested in two different types of transcription in Chinese, as well as in Old Japanese (tera), Jurchen (taira), and Middle Korean (tyǝr), which early borrowed the word via Chinese. 13 Because the term vihāra is used by archaeologists and art historians to refer specifically to the cloister plan of the core building, that usage is followed here. The institution as a whole, including all of its structures, is referred to henceforth as the “monastery”. No one has yet identified who might have invented the monastery, but several remarkable historical correlations do tell us approximately when and where it was invented. As noted, the Buddhist monastery first appears in the 2nd century CE at Taxila in Gandhāra and in various places in old “North China”, including Loyang. The territory of Central Asia lying in between these two places was largely occupied by the Kushan Empire and lands dominated, at least culturally, by the Kushans. The close chronological correlation of the appearance of the monastery and monasticism in these two locations suggests that it had been invented shortly beforehand. That would still put it in either the Kushan Empire or the Parthian Empire, or both. The Aramaic word for monastery was evidently introduced to East Asia by Parthians, the Parthian Empire, or perhaps the Indo-Parthian Kingdom, so they seem to be the locus of invention. However, archaeological work has not revealed any definite vihāra sites in the former Parthian Empire proper, leaving us with the territory of the Kushan Empire or the Indo-Parthian Kingdom. Since the excavated mound of Sirkap, the Saka-Parthian and Kushan period city of Taxila, has no vihāras at all, despite the number of Buddhist stūpas there, 14 it seems that the monastery was invented in the late 1st century CE, give or take a few decades, and then spread around the Kushan Empire and into neighboring regions. 15

9 Zürcher 2007: 22, 38–39. 10 Beckwith 2014; Beckwith 2017a; Beckwith 2017b; Beckwith & Kiyose 2018. 11 They arrived in northern China in the mid- to late-2nd century CE, and produced a number of Chinese translations of Buddhist texts that are still preserved (Zürcher 2007). 12 The Parthian Empire lasted from ca. 141 BCE to 224 CE. Iranic words are already frequent in late Achaemenid texts written in Imperial Aramaic (Naveh & Shaked 2012). 13 Beckwith 2017a. 14 Schopen (2004: 77) notes, “Even considerably after Aśoka ... there are no references to vihāras. In none of the hundreds of donative records from Bhārhut, Sāñcī, and Pauni does the term occur.” 15 Beckwith 2015: 73; Schopen 2004: 79; Marshall 1951, I: 233, 320, 324).

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The Kushan Empire, like the Parthian Empire, was founded by a steppe people who settled in heavily agricultural, mostly sedentary Iran and Central Asia, where the majority of the adult population consisted of land-bound farmers untrained for war. The small population of intrusive animal-herding Parthian warrior rulers no doubt needed much additional local help to rule their vast sedentary realm, and the same was surely true of the nomadic, herding warrior rulers of the Tokharoi-Saka-*Aśvin confederation, 16 who eventually became the Kushans, as noted in several other papers presented at the conference. The territory of the Kushan Empire, including even some of its more mountainous regions, seems to have been blanketed with monasteries, as noted by Chinese travelers in Bactria in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages. In particular, Hui Ch’ao (fl. ca. 726), says that there were hundreds of vihāras in rural eastern Bactria, in what is now Tajikistan, before Islamization. 17 In 1025–1026, when the Islamization of Central Asia was nearly complete, Arabic sources report that in the very same region there were already twenty fully-endowed madrasas—that is, Islamicized vihāras—with the same distinctive set of architectural forms, functions, and endowment. 18 In modern times, the remains of very many vihāras from Late Antiquity have been identified in Central Asia and northwestern India, now Pakistan, many in rural areas. 19 These are the vihāras found so far despite the difficult conditions still prevailing in those regions, which were the main centers of Buddhism in the West from Antiquity into the Early Middle Ages. There must be many more sites. The best-known ones archaeologically remain those excavated half a century or more ago in former Soviet Central Asia and in the northwestern part of former British India, now Pakistan. Next is the question of siting—the choice of locations where most vihāras were actually built. Schopen 20 has remarked that the Vinayas talk about the best siting for a monastery being an elevated location with a good view of the surrounding region. And in Taxila, that is exactly where the excavated vihāras are found, including some of the earliest ones. Taxila was an important Kushan city. Surely we would expect at least one of its vihāras to be located in or very near the city proper, but all of them seem to be located some distance away from it on one or another high hill overlooking the urbanized area. No doubt the monks would have enjoyed the nice view, as Schopen has suggested. Yet consider the architectural reality of the vihāra building. The oldest vihāras known, located around Taxila, and those built as late as the 8th century in Central Tibet, such as the Kvacu vihāra and Haspo Rgyab vihāra, both near Samye, are shown in old photographs to be small and heavily fortified. 21 They are also on flat land, like Adzhina Tepa. Vihāras like these did not have any windows or other openings to the outside other than the lone narrow doorway, which usually opens onto the courtyard of another walled structure. 16 17 18 19 20 21

Beckwith 2009: 380–383. Fuchs 1938: 452; cf. Litvinskij 1985. Beckwith 2012: 42. Gordon et al. 2009. Schopen 2006. Snellgrove & Richardson 1968: 36, 89.

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This seems to be true of the remains of most of the early vihāras in Gandhara that are located on high elevations, so it does not seem likely that the monks could actually enjoy the view, or even see anything at all, either from the cells or from the courtyard, which was not located on an outside wall of the vihāra at the brink of an overlooking height. The courtyard was located in the center of the vihāra, surrounded by the cells, and the lone entryway was built, of necessity, on the side facing the opposite direction, away from the view. In a few cases it seems to have been possible to see out from some of the cells, though not very well. For example, at Takht-i Bhāi, an early Gandhāran vihāra that does have openings in the wall built at the brink of the hillside looking out over the settled region below, though not the other walls. They are small holes, perhaps not windows pe se, but rather arrow-slits for archers to shoot from. Medieval historical works suggest that externally vihāras were indistinguishable from forts. According to Jūzjānī, the Afghan raider Muḥammad b. Bakhtiyār Khiljī [d. 1206] captured a fort in what is now Bihār Province in ca. 1200, killing the defenders; only afterward did he discover that it was actually a “madrasa”, which the local people called a bihār, i.e., vihāra. 22 The story may well be only a legend, but the point is that when Jūzjānī wrote in the 13th century, everyone knew that a vihāra, from the outside, looked exactly like a fort. It would not seem very wise for those in a fort not to be able to see what is outside the walls, and in fact, a standard feature of many early Buddhist monasteries is a large stepped stūpa associated with the vihāra, or even built inside its courtyard. It was often not so much large as it was saliently tall. In the case of the two tallest ones noted by early medieval Chinese Buddhist writers, namely the Yung-ning Szu 永寧寺 or ‘Dērā (“monastery”) of Eternal Tranquility’ in Loyang, and the Nawbahār or ‘New Vihāra’ in Balkh, described in the 6th and 7th centuries CE respectively, the great stūpa was also topped by a very tall flagpole flying large banners that could be seen from many miles away. The stūpas’ height might explain how they could see, but why did they spend so much effort and money on the decorative flagpoles and their banners—if they were merely decorative? Both of these monasteries were large and were built in or immediately outside the walls of large cities located on open flat land, where building on a hill or mountainside was not an option. Did the low elevation necessitate an extra-tall stūpa with an extra-tall flagpole? Or did the stūpa and flagpole have some other function? There are small monasteries in flat rural areas too, such as the early Tibetan ones noted above, but none have tall stupas or flagpoles, so they are a puzzling exception. Early Buddhist monasteries thus have the following standard or ideal physical features: – – –

A cloister or vihāra—a fortified rectangular structure housing a medium-sized group of regimented men in individual cells. When the monastery is situated outside a neighboring populated area, the vihāra is built ideally on a hilltop or other promontory high above it. When the monastery is situated in an urban area, the vihāra is accompanied by a tall tower-like stūpa structure topped by a tall flagpole flying large flags.

22 Raverty 1881: 552.

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These features of early Buddhist monasteries,and many even today in predominantly Buddhist countries, are all characteristics of military fortresses. The center of a fortress in a relatively flat urbanized region is typically dominated by a donjon, as in the 14th century Château de Vincennes outside Paris. The donjon is a tall, fortified tower that allows the commander to see over the walls and provides a backup defense if the walls are breached. On the other hand, many a famous fortified palace-capital is built on a high promontory and literally dominates the area around it. For example, the Acropolis in Athens, the Potala in Lhasa, and the Alhambra in Granada, all started out as hill-fortresses. All three lack anything like a donjon, and rely mainly on their strategic height for protection, though clearly none of them was capable of holding out when faced with attack by a serious military foe. Similarly, the fort-like vihāras were also not capable of holding out against a serious military threat, as the above-noted anecdote about Muḥammad b. Bakhtiyār Khiljī’s capture of one despite its denizens’ stout defense. It has been pointed out that even the great walls of Balkh were insufficient to defend that city, 23 and surely the same is true of the very many cities taken by determined foes in countless wars and insurrections over the centuries from East to West. Surely the question then is, why spend all the resources to build city or monastery fortifications if they were useless for keeping enemies out anyway? We must determine the real reason the fortifications were built. Let us consider the wall par excellence, the massively monumental Great Wall of China (which is famously visible from outer space) and its many Chinese predecessors and imitators, as well as Hadrian’s Wall and other similar walls built by the Romans, Greeks, and others. If their purpose really was to keep enemies out, all of them failed miserably. But that is not why they were built. The Chinese sources of the time, which discuss the walls in frontier areas and their uses, plainly state that the walls were built mainly to keep the people inside the walls from leaving. One might wonder why they would want to leave, and where they would go, if the people outside the walls were terrible, cruel barbarians whose main interest was in maiming and killing. But the primary historical sources written in Chinese, Greek, Latin, and other languages actually tell us the opposite: the people inside wanted desperately to escape and join the people outside. The Hsiung-nu, 24 the later Huns, Mongols, etc., were better fed, worked less, and lived much longer than the majority of people in the Chinese and Roman empires. It is well known that the ancient Roman 23 See Bracey’s contribution to this volume. 24 Despite many attempts to link the two peoples and names, Hsiung-nu 匈奴 could not have been pronounced anything like Hun [hu:n] ~ [χuːn] when the Chinese first transcribed the name in the 3rd century BCE. The characters used were pronounced *suɣlâ in the transcriptional Old Chinese dialect, becoming *suŋlâ, which became modern Hsiung-nu; *suɣlâ is obviously a relative of attested Suguda ~ Suɣda ~ Suɣla ‘Sogdian’ (Beckwith 2018), from *skuδa ‘shooter; archer’, the source of the Greek form Skutha ‘Scythian’, which was pronounced Skula by the time of Herodotus, as shown by Szemerényi (1980), cf. Beckwith (2009: 377–380); not with Schmitt (2003). The traditional (non-linguistic) reconstruction (Pulleyblank 1991: 346 ✩xuawŋ + 227 ✩nɔ) gives Old Chinese *swâŋlâ in the Central dialect, the ancestor of a Middle Chinese *χwɔŋlɔ, but see Beckwith (2018). Hsiung-nu was Iranic (Beckwith 2018), whereas the Hun language was Archaic Turkic (Shimunek et al. 2015; Beckwith 2017c).

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Empire had a declining population, but many slaves. The ancient Chinese states that built the early walls also had a population shortage, but again, many slaves. Clearly people were considered to be a valuable resource. Yet when individual Romans and Chinese who had themselves discovered how much better off they would live as Huns and Hsiung-nu respectively actually escaped, they encouraged their compatriots to also run off and join the Huns or Hsiung-nu or whoever was out there, as the sources explicitly tell us. 25 In short, the Great Wall, Hadrian’s Wall, and all the other walls were not built for defense. Like walls, forts are not defensive constructions, they are offensive—designed to mark and hold conquered territory and keep any people who had been captured, along with their territory, inside the new borders that now included them. The Chinese and Roman empires expanded into non-Chinese and non-Roman territory occupied by Central Eurasian peoples. These empires marked and held their conquered territory with lines of forts and walls manned by soldiers and, sometimes, convicts. What then about Buddhist monks? It is hard to say what the young men who joined the Saṃgha and took vows to become monks were thinking when they did so, but it is easy to imagine what many of them thought about after they were cooped up for many years inside a vihāra, with their heads shaven, their bodies obligatorily covered with a simple robe, eating barracks food every day. They thought of escape. Unfortunately, there was only one, guarded entryway, and the walls of the vihāra were very thick and hard. Without serious tools it was practically impossible to escape. Yet if the young men truly did freely join the Saṃgha, as we are told they did, why did they have to be kept in vihāras most of the time? There seem to have been many hundreds of monasteries in Kushan territory. When excavated they are immediately recognizable because they are all but identical. Lack of evolutionary change suggests rapid spread of a new design, which became a standard design and then lasted very long, surviving not only in Buddhist cultures but later in Muslim and Christian cultures too. 26 Nevertheless, this still does not explain why the Saṃgha of monks had to be housed in regimented cells surrounded by thick, mostly windowless walls, and fed and clothed by the neighboring villages. In view of the typical vihāra’s fortified design and siting, whether on a promontory high above a city or other important place (such as at Takht-i Bhāi in Gandhāra), or in a lowland city, with a high stupa or tower of some kind (such as in Balkh and Loyang), it seems that the Kushan Empire covered the land with vihāras to help hold conquered territory with garrison-like installations staffed by healthy, young, male, sedentary citizens, Normative Buddhist Monks, whose expenses were paid by the people of the occupied territory. Monks were not allowed to work to support themselves. They also seem rarely 25 See Blockley (1983) for the first-person account of Priscus to the court of Attila the Hun, including Priscus’ account of a Roman he met who had joined the Huns, and Beckwith (2009: 116, 332) for the views of Chinese who had joined the Hsiung-nu. 26 Nālandā, the famous Mahāvihāra in Bihār, though a late site, consists of many standard vihāras that are virtually identical to those built as much as a millennium earlier in Taxila. In the Seljuk Empire, the government built many standardized madrasas all across its territory to spread the particular form of Islam favored by the Seljuks, but no doubt for more practical reasons too.

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to have fought in actual wars, 27 and no caches of weapons have been found at excavated vihāra sites. Yet the distribution, completely regimented organization and lifestyle (down to the shaven heads and uniform-like robes), fortified dwellings, and everything else involving the vihāras, all exactly followed the model of a military movement into enemy territory—an invasion. It has often been noted by Indologists that Buddhism seems to have been a strikingly alien religion in India; surely it was alien in Central Asia, too, just as it certainly was in China. 28 The sources are quite clear about how a vihāra was built and supported. Hui Ch’ao, who journeyed through Central Asia to India and back in the early 8th century, remarks, “Whenever a vihāra is built, a village and its inhabitants are immediately donated as an offering to the Three Jewels [i.e., to organized Buddhism]. Building a vihāra without making any donation of a village and its folk is not done …” 29 If we were to rewrite this account of religious expansion as an account of military expansion, it would say that whenever a village and its inhabitants are subjugated, the rulers place them in servitude to the fortress which is built to keep them in servitude to the conquerors. Hui Ch’ao tells us that this is exactly what happened (though he makes it sound like a virtuous act). The similarity is too close to be coincidental. Building a monastery, with its barracks-like cloister and its tower-like stupas, and staffing it with regimented young men, was modeled directly on a military invasion, with its garrisoned forts and lookout towers, and in both cases the conquest was accompanied by subjugation of the local people to support the garrisoned invaders. In many predominantly Buddhist cultures it is still customary for monks to go out once a day to beg for food from the local people, and to accept used robes from them. Why did the early vihāras in Central Asia and northwestern India switch to economic dependence upon the subjugated (“donated”) local agricultural villages for their food, clothing, and other necessities? Why could the monks not beg for them, as in earlier times among the “urban” śramaṇas, 30 and in other places down to the present? It is significant that as far as we know, the Kushan monasteries were the first monasteries anywhere, in any religion. There was no precedent for them. Adopting a specifically military model for something new, but specifically religious, must have been a deliberate choice consciously made by someone. Hagiographies, and even texts presented as histories, which were written during the expansionistic period of Normative Buddhism, for example in early medieval Tibet and Japan, often describe the fierce opponents of the heroic new Buddhist teachers attempt27 It is well known that in the later Middle Ages, in Europe, Tibet, and East Asia, many monasteries did send monks out to fight. 28 This once again raises the question of the actual homeland of the Buddha and Early Buddhism (Beckwith 2015). 29 Van Bladel 2010: 67. 30 Beckwith 2015.

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ing to introduce the religion to a land where other beliefs were followed. The stories feature human opponents who supported various gods, as well as fierce humaniform beings who are typically portrayed as warrior-demons that can only be overcome by the magical power of fearless teachers. 31 Once converted, they become fearless Buddhist “protector” beings who are portrayed as warriors, formerly anti-Buddhist, with a fierce demeanor, brandishing weapons. The most famous such “protectors” are the “four kings”, still well known in Central Eurasia and East Asia. Their large, fearsome statues protect the gates of medieval monasteries as far as Nara and Kyoto. (The most famous is Vaiśravaṇa, protector of the north, whose weapons are the umbrella—the flags on top of stupas—and the stupa.) In some cases, enemy invasions are described as diverted, avoided, or destroyed by such protectors, who are summoned via the prayers or magic of the teachers. 32 These Buddhist tales, however ahistorical, exactly mirror an actual military invasion. The rapid spread of the newly invented, standardized Buddhist monasteries, with regimented soldier-like monks, was clearly intended to spread the new Normative Buddhism, which promises that virtuous people, especially good monks, will be reborn in one of the new Buddhist paradises. Bearing in mind the non-hierarchical nature of Buddhism, even Normative Buddhism, with no centralized organization to do all this, one wonders how Buddhists found the money to build and staff the monasteries. How did they carry out their peaceful “religious conquest” of foreign lands defended by warriors hostile to Buddhism, as their folklore claims they did? Buddhist tradition is remarkably consistent on this point. In every Asian country where Buddhism successfully spread, the monks first convinced the rulers and other people at the top of society to support them. 33 Historical accounts and legends both suggest this is exactly what did happen. For example, the historical account of the formal establishment of Buddhism in Japan in 552 CE (Nihon Shoki XIX.36) focuses on an aristocrat’s opening of the first vihāra there, the opposition of other aristocrats, ominous events credited to unhappy native gods, and the final victory of the Buddhists. In the Tibetan Empire (ca. 618–ca. 866 CE), according to an “ex eventu” prophecy, Emperor Khri Lde Gtsug Brtsan (“Mes Ag-tshoms”, d. 755 CE) and his Chinese consort Princess Chin-ch’eng invited in and supported a number of refugee monks from Khotan and other Central Asian countries. Not long afterward, a plague struck Tibet (recorded in the Old Tibetan Annals), killing the princess and the crown prince. The story continues that the monks were expelled and then went to Gandhāra, where they were at first supported by the local king. 34 These are stories, even if based on actual history. The Japanese and Tibetan rulers long supported their traditional non-Buddhist beliefs. Yet it is a historical fact that at the same time they did support Buddhism and helped it spread throughout their realms. The Kushans themselves seem to have been comfortable with the traditional Bactrian gods, as suggested by the dominant images on their coins, but as in Japan and Tibet, Bud31 32 33 34

Shakabpa 1967: 36, 45. Walter 2009: 175, 200. Walter 2009. Nattier 1991: 196.

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dhism could not have spread in the Kushan Empire without the Kushan rulers’ approval, at least. The above discussion suggests that the new Kushan Empire and the new Normative Buddhist saṃgha did agree to work together, with the Kushan dynasty handing over villages to be the feudatory supporters of the monasteries, which eager young Buddhists staffed as monks. Perhaps as part of the agreement, monks in the Kushan Empire were restricted to the officially sanctioned, standardized fort-like monasteries, which dominated the local villages that had to support them. Even if the Kushans themselves did not really become enthusiastic Buddhists, we must assume that they sanctioned the expansion of Normative, monastic Buddhism. Certainly they did profit from that expansion. The end result of the arrangement was the rapid spread of Kushan Buddhism as well as Kushan cultural and political influence throughout their own empire and far beyond it, across vast regions of Central Asia apparently not actually ruled by them, all the way to China. Bibliography Barthold, W. 1964. Sochineniya II.2. Moscow. Beckwith, Ch.I. 1993. The Tibetan Empire in Central Asia: A History of the Struggle for Great Power Among Tibetans, Turks, Arabs and Chinese during the Early Middle Ages. Princeton. —. 2006. “Old Tibetan and the Dialects and Periodization of Old Chinese” In Medieval Tibeto-Burman Languages II, edited by Beckwith, C.I., 179–200. Leiden. —. 2009. Empires of the Silk Road: A History of Central Eurasia from the Bronze Age to the Present. Princeton. —. 2012. Warriors of the Cloisters: The Central Asian Origins of Science in the Medieval World. Princeton. —. 2014. “The Aramaic Source of the East Asian Word for ‘Buddhist Monastery’: On the Spread of Central Asian Buddhism in the Kushan Period” Journal Asiatique 302/1: 111–138. —. 2015. Greek Buddha: Pyrrho’s Encounter with Early Buddhism in Central Asia. Princeton. —. 2017a. “Once again on the Aramaic Word for ‘Monastery’ in East Asia” Journal Asiatique 305/2: 211–224. —. 2017b. How Did the Chinese Actually First Hear and Transcribe Buddhist Terms? The Two Kinds of Late Old Chinese Transcriptions and Their Significance. Paper presented at the International Association of Buddhist Studies conference, Toronto, August 25, 2017. —. 2017c. The Archaic Turkic Prophecy and the Sons of Attila: Analysis of the Earliest Turkic language Data. Paper presented at the Symposium on Turkic Languages and Linguistics, University of Washington, Seattle, October 5, 2017. —. 2018. “On the Ethnolinguistic Identity of the Hsiung-nu” In Language, Government, and Religion in the World of the Turks: Festschrift for Larry Clark at Seventy-Five, edited by Gulacsi, Z., 33–55. Turnhout. Beckwith, Ch.I. and Kiyose, G.N. 2018. “Apocope of Late Old Chinese Short *ă: Early Central Asian loanword and Old Japanese Evidence for Old Chinese Disyllabic Morphemes” Acta Orientalia Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 71/2: 145–160. Fuchs, W. 1938. “Hui-ch’ao’s Pilgerreise durch Nordwest-Indien und Zentral-Asien um 726” Sitzungsberichte der Preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaften (philosophisch-historische Klasse) 30: 426–469.

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Gordon, S., Ciolek, T.M., Piel, L.H. and Gunatilleke G. 2009–present. Electronic Atlas of Buddhist Monasteries of South Asia, SE Asia, Central Asia, and East Asia between approx. 200 CE and approx. 1200 CE. http://www.ciolek.com/geo-monastic/ geo-monasteries-home.html and http://monastic-asia.wikidot.com/ Litvinskij, B.A. 1985. “Ajina Tepe” In Encyclopaedia Iranica, I, edited by Yarshater, E., 703– 705. London.

Litvinskij, B.A. and Zeimal’ T.I. 1971. Adžina Tepa. Moscow. Marshall, J.H. 1951. Taxila: An Illustrated Account of Archaeological Excavations Carried out at

Taxila under the Orders of the Government of India between the Years 1913 and 1934. 3 vols. Cambridge. Nattier, J. 1991. Once upon a Future Time: Studies in a Buddhist Prophecy of Decline. Berkeley. Naveh, J. and Shaked, S. 2012. Aramaic Documents from Ancient Bactria (Fourth Century BCE) from the Khalili Collections. London. Pulleyblank, E.G. 1991. Lexicon of Reconstructed Pronunciation in Early Middle Chinese, Late Middle Chinese, and Early Mandarin. Vancouver. ̤ abakāt-i-Nāṣirī: A General History of the Muhammadan DyRaverty, H.G. (trans.). 1881. T nasties of Asia, including Hindustan, from A.H. 194 (810 AD) to A.H. 658 (1260 AD) and the Irruption of the Infidel Mughals into Islam, 2 vols. London. Schopen, G. 2004. Buddhist Monks and Business Matters: Still More Papers on Monastic Buddhism in India. Honolulu. —. 2006. “The Buddhist ‘Monastery’ and the Indian Garden: Aesthetics, Assimilations, and the Siting of Monastic Establishments” Journal of the American Oriental Society 126/4: 487–505. Schmitt, R. 2003. “Die skythischen Personennamen bei Herodot” Annali dell’Università degli studi di Napoli “L’Orientale” 63/1–4: 1–31. Shakabpa, W.D. 1967. Tibet: A Political History. New Haven. Snellgrove, D. and Richardson, H. 1968. A Cultural History of Tibet. New York. Szemerényi, O.J.L. 1980. Four Old Iranian Ethnic Names: Scythian—Skudra—Sogdian—Saka. Vienna. Van Bladel, K. 2010. “The Bactrian Background of the Barmakids” In Islam and Tibet: Interactions along the Musk Routes, edited by Akasoy, A., Burnett, C. and Yoeli-Tlalim, R., 43–88. Farnham. Walter, M.L. 2009. Buddhism and Empire: The Political and Religious Culture of Early Tibet. Leiden. Zürcher, E. 2007. The Buddhist Conquest of China: The Spread and Adaptation of Buddhism in Early Medieval China. 3rd ed. Leiden.

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The Limits of the Kushan Empire in the Tarim Basin Tasha Vorderstrasse

The Kushan Empire (1st –mid-3rd century CE) was a vast empire that ruled over a wide variety of peoples and regions. At its apogee, it was one of the major powers of the ancient world, but we nevertheless have limited information about the empire and how it functioned. As we have seen over the past 20 years, even a single inscription has the ability to drastically alter what we know (or think we know) about the Kushan Empire and the extent of its power. Still, there is much that remains unanswered and even answering seemingly simple questions such as the extent of the Kushan empire is no easy matter. The question of whether or not the Kushans ruled the Tarim Basin in what is now Xinjiang Province of western China, is one that has been of considerable debate for scholars. The Tarim Basin was at the periphery of empires, first of the western Han Empire (206 BCE–9 CE), Xin Dynasty (9 CE–23 CE) then of the eastern Han (25 CE–220 CE) and the Kushan Empires, and finally the immediate post-Kushan and Western Jin (265–316 CE) period in the time here under examination (1st century BCE–3rd century CE). As an imperial periphery, the issue of the extent of control of the Tarim Basin remains a question. Indeed, it is still unclear if the Kushans ruled the Tarim Basin, how much of the Tarim Basin they might have controlled, and if they did control it, what the extent of that control was. Therefore, this article will examine in detail precisely who controlled the Tarim Basin over these nearly four hundred years and whether this control was direct or indirect. The purpose of this article is not to discuss issues of Kushan chronology, reign lengths, etc., all of which have been discussed extensively elsewhere. Rather, it seeks to better understand how the empire functioned and the possible extent of its boundaries, and the nature of Kushan control. As I will argue, the evidence suggests that the Kushans were an indirect rule empire whose control over the Tarim Basin was necessarily limited and short-term. The textual evidence suggests that it is likely that they had some control of the Tarim Basin, but archaeological sources are far more limited and difficult to define. First, this article will examine the theoretical background of how to determine the extent of boundaries and frontiers in archaeological discourse and what is known archaeologically about regions that were definitely under Kushan control. Then, it will begin by looking at the main source for our understanding of Kushan control of the Tarim Basin: Chinese historical accounts. These Chinese historical accounts will be examined in detail, starting in the pre-Kushan period, to better understand how the Chinese viewed the Kushans. Chinese historical accounts are often accepted uncritically, but Chinese accounts only tell about what is of interest to them and must therefore be examined critical-

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ly to understand the accounts in more detail. Further, the duplication of these accounts through time means that these texts have changed. As we will see, this has important implications for how the Kushan empire may have been organized, because it is evident that the transmission of information changed through time. The Chinese historical texts describing the regions that would come under the Kushan Empire in the 1st century BCE and the Kushan empire itself will also be examined, because it will show that the Chinese historical sources had a very interesting conception of the fluidity of the borders of empire. Once the Chinese historical texts are examined, the primary sources will also be examined. This includes coins and other textual information that might suggest Kushan control of the region. It will be compared to evidence from other parts of the Kushan Empire in order to try to better understand how the empire functioned and whether the Tarim Basin can be considered part of the empire. The Chinese and Tibetan post-Kushan period texts will also be examined in order to determine what the population might remember about possible Kushan control of the region. All of this data will be contrasted with Han dynasty control of the Tarim Basin where there is clear archaeological evidence for Chinese direct control. Evidence for Direct and Indirect Empire The identification of empires and the extent of those empires is a complicated issue in the archaeological record, where we usually lack defined borders such as walls or other signs that could indicate where a boundary ended or began. Further, ancient empires were affected by different circumstances and therefore formulated different strategies of control of their regions. 1 In all likelihood, of course, it is unlikely that these borders were necessarily strictly defined. While there has been a tendency in some empires to build walls to protect their borders in the absence of geographical boundaries in order keep out individuals whom they saw as a threat to their country, in other empires these borders are not necessarily well defined and were far more porous. In addition to the difficulties of defining these boundaries and finding them archaeologically, it is clear that the archaeological evidence will be different depending on whether the region was in indirect or direct control. If an empire is under the direct control of a particular region, we would expect that the material culture of a region to show considerable influence from the imperial control and material culture from different parts of the empire would appear to be very similar. There would also be evidence of imperial administration and military activities. On the other hand, if the control of the region was indirect, one would not expect to see much archaeological evidence for the control of the region and the empire would be hegemonic. Local administrative structures would be left intact or reorganized. It can

1 Sinopli & Morrison 1995: 83.

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be difficult, however, to differentiate the significance of the presence or absence of certain types of material culture which can suggest trade rather than imperial control. 2 As empires grow in the size, they may rule over different polities in a wide variety of geographical environments, as did the Inkan, 3 Kushan, and Roman empires. In order to govern these frontiers that are increasingly distant from the imperial center(s), many empires begin to build defensive systems such as lines of fortresses or walls and administrative centers to protect and control regions. 4 But this situation can fluctuate rapidly. Empires can often have rapid growth and in some cases, very rapid collapse. 5 There are various forms of material culture whose presence in the archaeological record can indicate imperial control that need to be examined for possible control of the Tarim Basin. This includes the presence or absence of imperial inscriptions, coins, and then other artifacts types. Inscriptions can help to suggest the extent of state control and serve as the legitimation of that control although this is not necessarily straightforward. The spread of inscriptions can show how an empire expanded, but they can also serve to symbolically subjugate or guard the region. 6 Sometimes inscriptions only give information about social networks, 7 but it is unclear how the local population perceived these inscriptions. 8 The presence of 3rd century BCE edicts of Ashoka in regions that would several hundred years later be controlled by the Kushans show the significance of the presence of royal inscriptions, but also the problems with the interpretation of their significance and what they tell us about Mauryan imperial control of its southern periphery. 9 When scholars examined the archaeological evidence in the southern frontier of the Mauryan empire, they found limited evidence of Mauryan influence in the material culture and the continuation of local ceramic and artistic traditions, suggesting that the Mauryan Empire 10 were “loosely bound provincial territories under the (sometimes vaguely defined) sovereignity of Mauryan kings”. 11 In many ways, the Kushan Empire can be compared to the Mauryan Empire because both of these empires are described by foreign as well as later sources, rather than by any dynastic history written under the Kushans themselves. 12 It has been suggested that the empire was divided into satrapies some of which were ruled directly by the king and others that had imperial autonomy but the exact nature of the administration is unclear although 2 Sinopli & Morrison 1995: 84; Smith & Montiel 2001: 245, 248–250, 263–264, 271; Matthews 2003: 142, 144–146; Chase et al. 2009: 175; Glatz 2009: 127; Malpass & Alconini 2010: 3–4; Smith 2017: 39–40 3 Alconini 2008: 63–64; Malpass & Alconini 2010: 3 4 Alconini 2008: 64. 5 Sinopli 1994: 173. 6 Glatz 2009: 136–137. 7 Smith 2017: 35. 8 Matthews 2003: 141. 9 Sugandhi 2003: 225; Sugandhi 2008a: 21–22; Sugandhi 2008b; Sugandhi 2013: 145–146, 148, 150; Smith et al. 2016: esp. 383 10 Sugandhi 2003: 227; Sugandhi 2008a: 2; Sugandhi 2013: 150, 156–157. 11 Sugandhi 2013: 151. 12 For these issues in the Mauryan Empire see, Sugandhi 2003: 226–227; Sugandhi 2013: 145.

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the different titles of officials suggested that there was an administrative hierarchy. 13 There was no evidence that there is any centralized authority and administration seems to have continued in hands of local families. 14 Complicating the understanding of the Kushan Empire, the Kushans ruled a culturally and geographically heterogeneous empire and scholars have identified distinct art styles based on the different regions that they ruled although styles did travel between regions. Even within a particular region, however, there were a variety of different styles. 15 Despite this, Rosenfield has interpreted Kushan art as still reflecting royal interests and states that one can see common iconographic features between these areas. Local Kushan officials presented themselves as representatives of the Kushans, which reinforced their own legitimacy. Although there were regional differences, it has still been suggested that the Kushans did try to centralize their state through their coinage, inscriptions that mention military expansion, and their royal titles. 16 Inscriptions in Bactria and Mathura have allowed scholars to arrive at some conclusions about how the Kushan Empire was constructed. The difficulty, however, is the interpretation of these inscriptions. Kushan inscriptions in Bactria were inscribed on rocks such as several inscriptions on Mount Qarabāy (Dasht-i Nāwūr) and Ayrtam and plaques at temples such as at Rabatāk and Surkh Khotal. 17 These inscriptions are therefore installed in places where they could be easily seen by temple visitors or travelers and which documented their actions. The trilingual Dasht-i Nāwūr inscription seems to have been erected to commemorate the Kushan King Vima Kadphises crossing the mountains, an action he also commemorates on his gold coins, as well. The other main reason to erect the inscription was to document the event of the king removing the tax contribution of the sanctuary. 18 In the Rabatāk inscription an official claimed to have been ordered by King Kanishka to install images of both gods as well as King Kanishka and his royal predecessors 19 thereby emphasizing King Kanishka’s royal lineage that served to legitimize him as king. 20 Actual royal images have been found in the sanctuary of Maṯ near Mathura in India and those images been used to interpret the uninscribed monumental images from Surkh Kotal as royal images. In Mathura, the inscriptions on the statues indicate that officials erected their royal images on behalf of the king rather than on his orders. One reason for this difference may have been that in Bactria in the Rabatāk, officials were closer to the center of Kushan power and therefore may have been under more direct rule. 21 13 Rosenfield 1967: 3; Mukhamedjanov 1996: 279–280; Puri 1999: 254; Jan 2006: 46; Dubey 2013: 296; Falk 2015: 78. 14 Basu 2006: 169–170. 15 Rosenfield 1967: 1; Pugachenkova et al. 1996: 323, 362, 374–375; Mehendale 1997: 47–48, 193; Basu 2001: 5–9, 12–13, 59, 198–200; Gupta 2003; Jan 2006: 49–50. 16 Rosenfield 1967; Basu 2001: 70–71. 17 Fussman 1974: 3–20; Sims-Williams 2012: no. 1, 2, and 4. 18 Harmatta 1996: 409–410, 413–414, 418. 19 Gnoli 2009: 142; Sims-Williams 2012: no. 1. 20 Basu 2001: 71–72, no. 230, 94, no. 326. 21 Rosenfield 1967: 144, 156; Mitterwallner 1986: 53–56; 59–62; Shrava 1993: 3; Basu 2001: 61, 64, 72–75.

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Scholars have emphasized the similarity of Surkh Kotal and Maṭ and interpreted these as Kushan royal dynastic sanctuaries 22 but some scholars have argued that these were not royal sanctuaries at all but rather the product of local Kushan elites. 23 At Ayrtam, near Termez engraved on a monumental relief with deities is an inscription that supposedly mentions that the king had given an image of the gods, and a private individual also was busy decorating the sanctuary and conducting work there, 24 but Sims-Williams has suggested that this is speculative. 25 Another inscription, that in Khaletse Ladakh in Kashmir dating to the reign of Vima Kadphises, merely mentions the year of the reign of the king. 26 The Rabatāk inscription celebrates Kanishka’s new era and claims sovereigninty over north India and claims of descent from earlier Kushan kings, recording the foundation of a shrine where images of the king’s ancestors and deities were installed. The inscription also detailed the Kushan expansion into India and their conquest of cities such as Wasp, Sāketa, Kauśāmbī, and Pāṭaliputra as far as Śrī-Campā, as well as all of India 27. There is also the Khaletse inscription (see above) of Vima Kadphises that shows that Kashmir was part of the early Kushan Empire, 28 and the inscription of Vima Takto at Mathura shows the Kushans controlled further south into India. 29 Dubey used different inscriptions combined with other evidence to show the borders of the Kushan Empire. 30 The variety of different titles used by the Kushans derived from their predecessors in the region (Indian, Iranian, and Greek language titles), as well as their neighbors (Roman). This use of their predecessors’ titles suggested that Kushans were trying to appeal to various parts of their population, 31 although the later Kushan use of a Roman title (kaisara) is less easy to explain on these grounds. In addition to inscriptions, there are other signs that might indicate the presence of the Kushan control of a particular region and this is the distribution of artifacts. Coins are usually the official output of a particular government and as such, their presence might indicate imperial control as is also the case for other artifact groups. 32 But in order to understand the significance of the presence of coins, one must understand their find spots and what the presence of coins at a particular site might signify. 33 Indeed, the presence of coins in a particular region does not necessarily indicate that this area was under control of a particular ruler as they could have reached the area through trade. Kushan coins were 22 Rosenfield 1968: 259–260, 262–263; Fussman 1989; Ghosh 2011: 212–213; Gnoli 2009: 141–142; Canepa 2015: 85–88. 23 Verardi & Grossato 1983: 233, 242. 24 Harmatta 1986: 131, 135–139; Shrava 1993: 155–156; Harmatta 1996: 423–424. 25 Sims-Williams 2012: 76. 26 Konow 1929, XXIX: 79–81. 27 Sims-Williams 1998: 81; Basu 2001: 72, 87; Sims-Williams 2012: 76–77. 28 Jan 2006: 113–114. 29 Jan 2006: 36. 30 Dubey 2013: 42–45. 31 Dubey 2013: 293. 32 Smith 2017: 37. 33 Collis 1981: 127; Kemmers & Myrberg 2011: 89–91. See in general Collis 1971.

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meant to circulate throughout the empire. 34 Various scholars have used the distribution of coins to argue for the extent of Kushan kingdom under the different rulers, 35 arguing that copper coins would not have circulated outside the empire and that their presence demarcates the northern frontier of the empire. 36 Basu argued that the circulation of Kushan coins in Mathura indicates that it is in the Kushan economic zone, 37 while Dubey also used coins to demarcate borders of the Kushan Empire in India. 38 Another aspect of imperial rule are seals that are generally associated with imperial administration. The use of such seals should be seen as significant because they demonstrate the interaction between imperial authority and its subordinates. 39 This is also the case for the Han Chinese and their interaction with their subjects and their foreign neighbors (see below). Over 700 seals dating to the Han and the later Wei and Jin dynasties have been found. 40 The Han Chinese issued seals to local rulers 41 and officials who had sworn loyalty to the Han including members of the Han Dynasty royal family. 42 The seals were worn publicly with a seal cord attached to a belt and the type of seals and the color, and length of the cords varied depending on the position of the individual in the imperial hierarchy and identified whether that was a member of royal family, a Han official, or foreign rulers and other elites. 43 They were not always a sign of direct control since they were issued to people living in regions they did not actually rule, however. This was the case of the seal of the State of Na, which was located in Japan and not controlled by the Chinese. The Chinese sources claimed that the Kingdom of Wa simply continued to give tribute to the Han rather than becoming subject to them. Even if the Chinese did not control a particular state, the issuing of a seal meant that they were integrated into the Chinese world order. These countries would in turn want to be recognized by the Han because it would have granted them prestige and shows that they had been accepted as a legitimate state by the most powerful empire in the region. 44 In the case of the Kushans, however, a seal of a King Kanishka was found at Kauśambī, 45 which has been interpreted as providing further evidence for control of the city indicated by the Rabatāk inscription. The find of a single seal,

34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

Jan 2006: 47. Jongeward & Cribb with Donovan 2015: 25–26, 44, 55, 65, 68, 91, 136. Mukhamedjanov 1996: 273. Basu 2006: 169. Dubey 2013: 42–43. Glatz 2009: 135–136. Fogel 2013b: 20. See Fogel 2011 and Fogel 2013a, Fogel 2013b, 44–45, discusses state of Nu in the Wa Kingdom esp. Fogel 2011: 26–27; Fogel 2013a: 362–363; Fogel 2013b: 169–170, 177–179, which discusses the gold seal issued to the King of the state of Dian (Yunnan) and ruler of the state of Nam Viêt See Fogel 2011: 28–29; Fogel 2013a: esp. 364–365; Fogel 2013: 176–177, which discusses a seal issued by Han Emperor Ming to his brother in 58 CE. Fogel 2013a: 365; Fogel 2013b: 45–51; Psarras 2015: 7. Fogel 2013b: 26–28, 43–44. Sharma 1958: xxxix; Shrava 1993: 3; Jan 2006: 41, no. 64

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however, cannot be taken as evidence for direct control. The excavator listed also finding Kushan coins, arrowheads, terracottas, as well as personal names. 46 There have only been a few attempts to try to determine the extent of the Kushan Empire on the basis of archaeological evidence. As Dubey notes in an unpublished dissertation, it can be difficult to find specifically Kushan material in excavations. But Dubey posits that coins, coin moulds, and inscriptions, as well as bricks of a particular size, floor tiles, large brick structures including stupas decorated with sculptures, votive tanks, and certain pottery types can allow sites to be identified as Kushan. 47 Dubey, accepting the Rabatāk inscription as accurate, argues that the Kushan coins and terracottas shows that the city of Pataliputra was under Kushan control. 48 Therefore, it is clear that there are many questions about the archaeology of the Kushan Empire that still remain which complicates the attempts to archaeologically define the empire and the extent of its rule. As more material is discovered, however, the picture will become clearer. The Rabatāk inscription has already transformed our understanding of the Kushan Empire, for example. Tarim Basin and Direct Han Control When one turns attention to the Kushan Empire possibly occupying the Tarim Basin, it is first necessary to look at the evidence for direct control of the Tarim Basin by the Han Chinese. The geography of the Tarim Basin needs to be investigated in order to understand how it may have been integrated into the Kushan Empires. Further, another factor that has to be kept in mind is the distance between these regions. 49 The Tarim Basin is a vast area of 535,000 km2 that is located in the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous region in the People’s Republic of China that is bordered on three sides by the Tian Shan, Pamir, and Kunlun Mountains. The Taklamakan desert is at the center of the Tarim Basin and constitutes its most important feature and its geography limited where the population could live. They were restricted to the oases distributed throughout the desert in the terminal deltas at the end of rivers which are formed by melting ice in the high mountains, while the interior of the desert was not inhabited. The oases are very fragile and susceptible to both climate change as well as salinization. The climate in the Han and Tang dynasties was apparently slightly warmer than today meaning that the rivers had higher volumes of water than today, so they could support higher populations. This means oases that were several hundred hectares in area disappeared after river beds changed. 50 The rivers could

46 47 48 49 50

Sharma 1960: 15. Dubey 2013: 121. Dubey 2013: 261. For this methodology see Matthews 2003: 143; Glatz 2009: 132, 135. Barfield 1989: 19; Padwa 2004a: 26; Tashi et al. 2010: 51–52, 54; Mischke et al. 2017.

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shift quite substantially even over a year, 51 and the population had major effects on the environment of the region. 52 Therefore, exerting control over a marginal region such as the Tarim Basin was clearly fragile and unstable, with major expansion and contraction occurring over a short period. 53 Despite the difficulties in controlling this region, it was a strategic area that would have been of interest for empires to control. The Xinjiang region commands the communication routes between the China and Central Asia and as such, is an important commercial corridor through which trade and ideas could and did pass. The Hexi or Gansu Corridor is a narrow passage that is 960 km long and 80 km wide that is filled with oases and at the end of the corridor it opened to Xinjiang after passing through the cities of Anxi and Dunhuang and the Jade Gate. 54 For the Kushans, the region would have been separated from them by high mountains and the area was a periphery not only for the Kushans, but also for the Han Dynasty. As such, one would expect to see a complex and dynamic system of interactions between the populations living in this region and the individuals and empires trying to control them, whether that control was direct or indirect. The very geographical challenges that made the Tarim Basin so fragile, meant that it entered the imagination of the archaeological world thanks to the spectacular finds made by a variety of western travelers to the area in the late 19th and early 20th century, most notably by Aurel Stein and Sven Hedin. 55 The aridity of the Taklamakan Desert led to extraordinary preservation of structures, objects, and even the people of the Tarim Basin. Despite the impressive finds made by these travelers, there have been few archaeological excavations of settlements in the area. Most of the recent investigations have concentrated on cemetery sites although there have been recent excavations of settlements including the Sino-Japanese excavations at Niya and the French excavations in the lower Keriya delta at the site of Karadong. 56 Padwa, quoting the 5th century Chinese traveler Faxian’s description of the region, suggests that the Tarim Basin population consisted of “constellations of settlements forming territories” 57 spread out over a wide area along the river beds located at terminal oases. 58 One difficulty in assessing the information about Han and possible Kushan control of the Tarim Basin, is that the evidence comes primarily from dynastic Chinese histories: Shiji written by Sima Qian (circa 145–86 BCE), Hanshu written by Ban Gu (32–92 CE), and Hou Hanshu written by Fan Ye (389–445). This means that the main sources were

51 52 53 54 55 56

Barrera 2012: 41. Chen 2012: 63. For similar observations of the Hittite Empire in general see Glatz & Matthews 2005: 50. Di Cosmo 2002: 20. Padwa 2004a: 26–29; Padwa 2007: 18–21, 26. For Stein’s methods see Escauriaza-Lopez 2012. Debaine-Francfort et al. 1994; Zhong Ri gong tong Niya yiji xueshu kaocha dui 1996–1999; Debaine-Francfort & Idriss 2001; Debaine-Francfort et al. 2010; Padwa 2007: 20–22; Høisæter 2013: 15 57 Padwa 2007: 53. 58 Debaine-Francfort et al. 1994: 36; Padwa 2007: 40–41; Debaine-Francfort et al. 2010: 186, 190–191; Høisæter 2017: 341, 351.

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written over a period of five hundred years. 59 The histories reported on what was of interest to the Chinese themselves and tended to ignore issues that would be of interest to present historians such as how the Tarim Basin was administered 60 or about the Kushans (known as the Yuezhi or Da Yuezhi in Chinese). 61 These histories reflected the prejudices and experiences of their authors, such as Ban Gu, who was the brother of the general Ban Chao who was active in the Tarim Basin (see below). 62 Fan Ye, who compiled information about the Hou Hanshu, praised the General Ban Chao and relied on material that Ban Yong, the son of Ban Chao, had written about the events described. He also used later sources, however. 63 Yang Juping claimed that this means that the information in Hou Hanshu should be regarded as “highly credible”. 64 Nevertheless, the fact that Ban Yong was the son of Ban Chao means that his information was also biased. The histories often had a didactic and moralizing purpose and the empire was identified with the emperor himself who acted through a mandate from heaven. 65 This is not to say that Chinese historians had no interest in facts, however, 66 and certain themes recur frequently (see below). There are various addresses to the emperors, for instance, regarding non-Chinese tribes and how to deal with them and the emperors had to determine how to respond. 67 As part of the Chinese struggles with the nomadic Xiongnu starting at the end of the 3rd century BCE, the Tarim Basin came into the Han Chinese sphere but they struggled to control the area through time. As a result, Chinese control of this region waxed and waned through the centuries. The Xiongnu came into conflict with the newly established Han Dynasty and defeated the Chinese, forcing them to provide subsidies to them and open their borders to trade. The Han unsuccessfully tried to defeat the Xiongnu throughout the Western Han period and the Xiongnu dominated Central Asia as far as the Tarim Basin and beyond. Between 133–90 BCE the Chinese won victories against the Xiongnu and cities came under Chinese control, but these wars were very expensive and difficult to maintain. The oasis states of the Tarim Basin found themselves caught between the Chinese and the Xiongnu, meaning that they often had to pledge loyalty to the Han or to the Xiongnu or both depending on the situation. The Han and the Xiongnu competed for control over these states by installing rulers who were loyal to them. Those who swore loyalty to the Han also received Chinese seals and titles. In 121 BCE, the Han set up four prefectures in the area which represented the first attempt of the Western Han to directly control the region. It was not until 54 BCE that the Xiongnu finally stopped fighting China but that was due to an internal civil war rather than the Chinese triumphing over the Xiongu militarily. The Chinese were then able to consolidate control over 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Wang 2007: 68. Hitch 1988: 174–175; Mitchiner 2012: 112; Yang 2015: 421. Mehendale 1997: 32. Wang 2007: 69. Hitch 1988: 174–175; Wang 2004: 74. Yang 2013: 85. Yates 2001: 353. Olberding 2012: 15. Olberding 2012: 47, 138. For more on this see Olberding 2013a; Olberding 2013b.

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the 36 states of the Tarim Basin (which they called the Western Regions or Xiyu) under the first Protector General of the Western Regions (Xiyu Duhu Fu). The Han also made additions to the Great Wall extending it into this region from nearby Gansu and building military installations against possible invaders. 68 Due to their interactions with the Chinese, local rulers began acculturating to the Chinese way of life, such as the early 1st century BCE King of Kucha who changed his court and institutions to being Chinese which led him to be mocked by his neighbors. 69 Even the Xiongnu found themselves co-opted by the Han shown by seals inscribed with the “barbarian-destroying Xiongnu chief under the Han,” for example. The Han started to give seals to the Xiongnu beginning in the mid-1st century BCE. 70 The Han government generally left the regions that they conquered to continue their own customs provided they were subject to Han taxes and sent their sons as hostages to the Han court. In return, rulers and local elites received seals from the Han Court (see above). In some cases, however, the Chinese intervened more directly and appointed Han Chinese to new official posts that they had created. 71 At the end of the western Han period, the Han Empire disintegrated due to a succession crisis in the early 1st century CE and then the short-lived Xin Dynasty meant that they then lost control of the Tarim Basin. As a result, the Xiongnu were once again able to take control of the area but when the eastern Han came to power and they were able to re-establish Chinese control in the Tarim Basin in the later half 1st century CE under the General Ban Chao. Nevertheless, the Chinese were not able to maintain long-term and stable control of the Tarim Basin due a general lack of Chinese interest in extending control over the region. While Ban Chao’s son Ban Yong followed his father in ruling Tarim Basin on behalf of the Chinese, he lacked the proper resources operating with minimal support in China. The Han Chinese began to lose interest in the area in the late 2nd century CE as China once again fell into civil war. The eastern Han had never really been as committed to the Tarim Basin as the western Han had been and were not willing to spend the large sums of money to maintain the region (see above). 72 When the Han conquered regions, they needed to bring the areas under their control. In order to do so, the Chinese settled the region with Chinese troops and other Chinese settlers, establishing garrisons, building roads for supplies, and generally organizing these areas as in the Han Empire. Garrison troops were required to cultivate land to support themselves in the so-called tuntian system. The administrative system of the Han along

68 Barfield 1981: 46, 53–54, 56–57; Barfield 1989: 57; Ma & Sun 1996: 219–221, 231; Barfield 2001: 10, 15, 18–22, 24–26; Di Cosmo 2002: 154, 188, 190, 192–193, 197–200, 246; Wang 2004b: 27; Chang 2007: 225, 231; Rhie 2007: 9–10; Tse 2012: 45, 165; Høisæter 2013: 78–80; Yang Jidong 2015: 424. 69 Ma & Sun 1996: 228. 70 Fogel 2013b: 51, 207–208. 71 Ma & Sun 1996: 231; Chang 2007: 232–233; Pai 2010: 312; Høisæter 2013: 81. 72 Chavannes 1906; Barfield 1989: 67; Debaine-Francfort et al. 1994: 36; Ma & Sun 1996: 221–222; Crespigny 2006: 7–8; Rhie 2007: 11–12, 242–243; Tse 2012: 165–171; Høisæter 2013: 81, 96–97; Crespigny 2017: 139.

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the frontier changed through time to reflect the different historical situations. 73 They administered their empire through a highly developed administrative and military system, which is attested in a variety of documents including the Juyan bamboo documents from Juyan in inner Mongolia and the Xuanquan post office in the Dunhuang region 74 and the map from Mawangdui No. 3 that shows the location of military installations. 75 In addition, Han Dynasty fortifications of various types have been found in the Tarim Basin, 76 there are also signs of the Han irrigation and agricultural activities in the region that would allow them to colonize the Tarim Basin through military-agricultural colonies. 77 The number of Han Chinese inscriptions is limited, but an eastern Han inscription that dates to 137 CE records a victory and another that dates to 158 CE that records the construction of a watch tower. 78 In addition to the fortifications, there were other signs of Han influence in the region. Large numbers of Han dynasty coins were found in the Tarim Basin, 79 but these coins are often an unreliable source of dating because they normally stayed in circulation for long periods of time, although there are exceptions to this. The limited evidence that seems to come from the late eastern Han period suggests a link with Chinese coinage and the Chinese military in this period. 80 Wooden slips give information about how the Han Empire functioned. The Juyan slips point to a large military population at the borders of China but administration was same as it was in central China. 81 The Xuanquan site shows similar patterns and points to a highly organized Chinese administrative system. 82. In addition, however, Han Dynasty wooden slips relating to the Han administration were also found. 83 There were also Chinese prestige objects such as lacquerware, rattanware, bronze mirrors, paper, seals, and tiles. 84 The presence of certain types of iconography in burials argued that Han beliefs about the afterlife had spread to the population to the Tarim Basin, 85 although these individuals might be Chinese who had been settled in the

73 Ma & Sun 1996: 232–235; Di Cosmo 2002: 143–144, 236, 246, 282; Yu 2006: 27; Høisæter 2013: 81–82; Hill 2015: 64–67; Yang 2015: 424. For Korea see Pai 1992: 306. 74 Chang 2007: 4–5; Lien 2015: 17–19; Yang 2015: 421–426, 431. 75 Yee 1994: 40–41; Di Cosmo 2002: 285. 76 Debaine-Francfort et al. 1994: 36; Chang 2007: 222–223; Padwa 2007: 41–42; Høisæter 2013: 38, 84–85. For an initial GIS study of Han fortifications see Zhu et al. 2017. For a more detailed study of the Han fortifications in the nearby Gansu corridor see Tomiya et al. 2005. 77 Chang 2007: 225–229; Ma & Sun 1996: 233–234; Høisæter 2013: 84–85. 78 Chavannes 1902: 1–2, 5, 17–24, 37–38; Ma & Sun 1996: 236. 79 Bergman 1935: 99–101; Ma & Sun 1996: 227; Wang 2004b: 27; Rhie 2007: 338. 80 Bergman 1935: 100; Wang 2004b: 25–28. 81 Wang 2004b: 47–48. 82 Wang 2004b: 55–56. 83 Chavannes 1912; Conrady 1920; Maspero 1953; Ma & Sun 1996: 233; Huang 1998: 375–402; Yu 2006: 86, 92, 94–96; Chang 2007: 5; Rhie 2007: 335; Høisæter 2013: 82–83, 89–90. 84 Ma & Sun 1996: 220–221; 225–226, 236; Chang et al. 2005: 277. 85 Castelo 2012: 123–124.

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region. Indeed, Chinese seems to have largely used for official purposes and was not used by the local population. 86 The material culture of the Tarim Basin can be compared to the archaeological evidence for Han control in Korea, where one can document declining Han influence the further one gets from the center of Han control on the peninsula. The Han constructed a military outpost in Korea with clay seals and bricks that had Han titles inscribed on them as well as Han seals and mirrors in graves. Further, there were local hybrid objects that had been altered by coming into contact with Han material culture. 87 The presence of these types of objects, however, could indicate other interactions. In Japan in the Kingdom of Wa for example (see above), archaeologists found a large amount of Han Dynasty material culture, perhaps indicating trade between Japan and the Han Dynasty outpost in Korea rather than the imperial center of China itself. Indeed, the large amount of Han Dynasty material culture in Japan indicates the prestige that elites owning Han Dynasty objects could have without any Han control, whether direct or indirect. 88 Nevertheless, there is archaeological evidence from the tomb at the Shizhaishan site in the modern southwestern Chinese province of Yunnan where the seal of the state of Dian issued by the Han Dynasty was found (see above), which included burial goods that suggested that the Han Dynasty saw the state of Dian as their internal subject rather than as an external state that provided tribute. This idea is supported by the Chinese dynastic histories that the State of Dian became part of the Han Dynasty. Nevertheless, the archaeological evidence in the Han period suggests that the conquest did not happen quickly but took place over time and also fluctuated. The material culture of the State of Dian was not immediately replaced by Han material culture, rather the two types coexisted side by side. This is also shown in the burials of the elites where both Han funerary goods and local burial types continued to coexist. 89 It does provide a caution to the interpretation of Han material, however. In the absence of the textual evidence from China which indicates that the northern part of Korea was directly controlled by the Han while Japan was not controlled by them at all, one might have been tempted to interpret the material culture from both regions as a sign of direct control, particularly because a Han seal granted to the King of Na was found. What it demonstrates, however, is how the Chinese histories provide context to allow the interpretation of the archaeology. After the end of the eastern Han dynasty in 220 CE, the Han Dynasty did not revive to form a new extension of the dynasty. The late 2nd/early 3rd-century ushered in the Three Kingdoms period, and China was not united again until under the Western Jin (265–316 CE) in 280 CE. The Western Jin extended their control into the western regions in the Tarim Basin in 265–270 and they began to give local officials Chinese titles. This seems to be a continuation of the Han practice of co-opting local elites, and Chinese seals from this period have been found in the Tarim Basin. Chinese administrative texts were also 86 87 88 89

Ma & Sun 1996: 228. Pai 1992: 310–313; Fogel 2013b: 28–29. Fogel 2013b: 28, 32. Yao & Jiang 2012: 354, 364–365; Fogel 2013b: 174, 219; Yao 2016.

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found in the region which indicate their control of communications and travel, while the Niya version of Gandhari Prakrit written in Kharoṣṭhī (see below) was used for local concerns. 90 Chinese language documents make it clear that Chinese armies were stationed there in 3rd/4th century. 91 While it can be difficult to link Chinese texts to archaeological evidence, 92 there is nevertheless clear evidence for Chinese direct control of the Tarim Basin which can be contrasted to the Kushan evidence (see below). Both the textual and archaeological evidence found in the Tarim Basin supports the evidence for direct eastern and western Han and Western Jin domination of the Tarim Basin that is described in the Chinese histories. There is evidence for Han dynasty fortifications, military colonies, as well as Han and Western Jin Dynasty armies in the Tarim Basin, in addition to large numbers of Chinese coins and Chinese prestige items. There is also some evidence for the penetration of Chinese religious beliefs in the area. Kushan Control of the Tarim Basin Therefore, the existing evidence points to direct Han control of the Tarim Basin, although it clearly fluctuated through time, which is confirmed by the archaeology of the frontier dynamics in the State of Dian (see above). The question is whether or not a similar degree of archaeological evidence can be found in the Tarim Basin for the Kushans. The Kushans’ interest in the region would have been similar to the Han Chinese and Western Jin. The Tarim Basin was connected to Gandhara and Bactria by a network of routes over the mountains. According to Neelis, there were numerous capillary routes that connected the cross-cultural exchanges in northern India and silk routes in Central Asia. 93 Possible Kushan control of the Tarim Basin must be seen within its historical context, which was part of overall trends within the Han Empire to control not only the Tarim Basin, but also areas beyond the mountains to both the northeast and southeast, if the Chinese historical records are to be believed. The Kushans left very few sources about their own history, meaning that we are largely reliant on outside accounts, namely the Chinese sources. 94 These sources for the Kushans should be seen in the context of the attempts of the Chinese to control peripheral regions. The Chinese frequently justify their attempts to control non-Chinese territories by blaming these non-Chinese populations. The first Chinese dynastic history, the Shiji, describes how the Chinese envoys were killed after visiting Dayuan 95 to obtain precious “horses who sweat blood,” and the Chinese had to

90 91 92 93 94 95

Hansen 2004: 289; Høisæter 2013: 88; Padwa 2007: 57–58, 72–73; Rhie 2007: 104, 243. Chavannes 1912; Conrady 1920; Maspero 1953; Wang 2004b: 56; Hansen 2015: 42. Di Cosmo 2002: 3. Neelis 2002: 147; Neelis 2011. Mehendale 1997: 32. Ferghana or possibly further west, see Pulleyblank 1968: 252–253.

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invade in revenge, 96 although the later history Hanshu also notes that another reason for Dayuan to attack envoys was to cut the route between the western regions and the Han. 97 This later interpretation of the situation presumably reflects the increasing importance of the western trade routes for the Chinese. The Shiji described a similar justification for the Han invasion and subsequent occupation of Korea: the king of the ancient kingdom of Gojoseon killed a Han envoy. 98 The Chinese found it difficult to invade and occupy a region beyond the high mountains of the Tarim Basin for logistical regions. The initial Han invasion of Dayuan was unsuccessful due to the quality of the Han troops and poor information about the region, as well as a lack of support for the Han army by the kingdoms along the route to Dayuan in the Tarim basin. Better preparations meant that a second invasion was successful and Wugua, the king of Dayuan was killed. The precious horses were taken back to China and a noble who had been friendly to the Han became the new king. 99 Therefore, the Chinese have intervened directly in Dayuan’s internal affairs and appointed the king who they made a treaty with, suggesting that Dayuan was now considered a subject of the Han, but as events clearly then showed, not one that they could directly control. After the defeat of Dayuan, things initially seemed to go well for the Han. The small cities that had previously either refused to help the Han or had to be defeated in order to do so, now willingly paid tribute to the emperor. 100 Nevertheless, trouble started once again in Dayuan over a year after the initial invasion. The nobles in Dayuan decided that the new king established by the Han was responsible for the ruin of the kingdom and they killed the king and established King Wugua’s younger brother as king, sending his son to the Han court as a hostage and the Han sent gifts to pacify the area. 101 The Hanshu also added that the new king of Dayuan agreed to send the Han two of the horses a year and that they submitted to the Han. 102 The amount of communication with the Tarim Basin increased after the victory in 101 BCE and Chinese farming colonies were established so that the Chinese troops would be fed, 103 presumably to avoid previous problems with supply of troops. The killing of Han envoys also played a role in the relations between the Han and another country beyond the mountains of the Tarim Basin, the country of Jibin, located beyond the Pamirs apparently in the lower and middle reaches of the Kabul River 104 or the

96 97 98 99

100 101 102 103 104

Shiji Ch. 23; Yu 2004: 2–3. Shiji Ch. 123. See Buell 2003: 54; Yu 2004: 3. Pai 1992: 309. Shiji Ch. 23; Buell 2003: 54–57; Yu 2004: 3–6. See also Hanshu Ch. 96A.36B-37B. See Hulsewé 1979: 131–135. Note that Buell translates the name of the king, Wugua, as being the “regent queen mother,” but there is no reason to translate it in this way. Further, no regent queen mother was ever mentioned previously in the story. Shiji Ch. 23; Buell 2003: 57. Shiji Ch. 23; Buell 2003: 56: Yu 2006: 6. Hanshu Ch. 96A.38A; Hulsewé 1979: 135; Yu 2004: 6. Wang 2004b: 27. Yu 2006: 103; Li 2005.

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Gandhara region. 105 The trajectory of those relations contrasts with Korea and Dayuan. In the 1st century BCE, the king of Jibin also killed Chinese envoys because he thought China was too far away to do anything about the outrages. Eventually, however, the Chinese and their allies killed the king and installed their ally as the new king. Importantly, the new king became a Chinese subject. In order to demonstrate his country’s subjection to China, he received the seal and ribbon from the Han Emperor Yuandi. 106 Such seals and ribbons were commonly given to rulers and nobles of countries that were either under direct control or theoretical control of China (see above). Since China was far away from Jibin and presumably unable to intervene directly this was more of a symbolic gesture than a true indication of direct control. As in the case of Dayuan, Jibin rapidly became problematic. The new king once again murdered Chinese envoys in Jibin and the Chinese cut relations with the country. Under Emperor Cheng (32–7 BCE), Jibin sent an envoy with gifts and a message of apology. The Chinese were planning to send back an envoy, but the official Du Qin objected and addressed his concerns to General Wang Feng. He noted the history of the relations between China and Jibin 107 and it is interesting to note that the country is defined in terms of it being a Han subject, clearly indicating that the Han considered it as such. The text then goes on to moralize how subjects should behave and notes that Jibin did not act correctly because it knew it was too far away for China to punish. If it wanted the Chinese to do something, it would act accordingly before then doing whatever it wanted when it no longer needed anything. Therefore, it could not be a subject of China. It also did not pose any danger to the Chinese. Further, when they sent envoys, they were not members of the royal family or nobles, but rather merchants and low born individuals who wanted to conduct trade, even though they claimed to be bringing gifts. Making matters more difficult, the Chinese had to provide envoys to escort the Jibin visitors back out of China, which was expensive and difficult for the Chinese. Wang Feng then explained the matter to the emperor and Wang Feng suggested the relations should not be resumed. Nevertheless, Jibin still tried to send envoys and profit from trade and imperial gifts. 108 Yu Taishan argues that the Chinese did not send envoys to Jibin but allowed that them to visit China. 109 This example is typical of the Chinese dynastic histories which had a didactic purpose to demonstrate morals and legitimate the regime. 110 The back story about the immoral actions of Jibin contrasted against the moral actions of the Chinese and the fact that the advice about how to act against Jibin is given to Wang Feng the emperor’s uncle rather than the emperor himself, reinforces Wang Feng’s position in the Emperor

105 Sen 2015: 3. 106 Hanshu Ch. 96A.25A-27A. See Zürcher 1968: 363–364; Hulsewé 1979: 107–112; Yu 2006: 103– 104; Yang 2013: 83, for a description 107 Hanshu Ch. 96A. Yu 2004: 104–105; Yang 2013: 83–84. 108 Hanshu Ch. 96A; Yu 2006: 105–106. 109 Yu 2006: 106. 110 Ng & Wang 2005: xi-xii.

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Cheng’s government. This reinforces the purpose of the Hanshu which was to legitimate the Han dynasty. 111 The Chinese were not the only ones, however, who tried to control countries across the Pamirs. King Xian of Suoju (Yarkand, an oasis in the southwest Tarim Basin) ascended the throne in 33 CE. Although Chinese influence over oases of the Tarim Basin in this period was problematic due to the resurgence of the Xiongnu (see above), Yarkand was depicted in Chinese histories as remaining pro-Chinese, despite all the problems associated with the Chinese dynasty. Xian managed to start to dominate the nearby states in the Tarim Basin and he paid tribute to the Han. He requested that he be granted the title of Protector General of the Western Regions and the Han Emperor initially granted this request. Unfortunately for Xian, however, the Administrator of Dunhuang protested against the idea of giving a barbarian such as Xian a Han title of this importance, leading the emperor to change his mind. He took away the seal and ribbon that granted Xian the title and gave him the lesser title of Chief General. Xian’s response to this event demonstrates the importance that elites in the Tarim Basin placed on the Han Dynasty titles and their seals. Xian began to conquer more parts of the Tarim Basin, including polities in the far west such as Turfan. Although the states asked for help from the Han Chinese, they did not receive any and they turned to protection from the Xiongnu. But the Xiongnu too were not in a position to help the Tarim Basin polities and therefore Xian was not only able to dominate the Tarim Basin but also to extend his authority across the Pamirs including Dayuan and Guisai (located on the headwaters of the Oxus). But Xian’s his power seems to have been precarious since he killed or exiled kings. But eventually King of Khotan managed to trick Xian, took him prisoner, and executed him. 112 While it is easy to criticize the Han emperor for his handling of Xian and the polities that Xian attacked, it is likely that he was not in any position to intervene in the affairs of the Tarim Basin. 113 The question of the Kushan activities in the Tarim Basin is based both on the historical evidence in the Chinese sources, as well as the material culture found in the region. The question is how this material should be interpreted. The Hou Hanshu provides information about the Kushan involvement in the western regions and had been written by Fan Ye, whose information comes from Ban Yong, the son of Ban Chao (see above) who lived in the Western Regions with his father and later oversaw the region. In the Hou Hanshu, the biography of Ban Chao records the relations between the Kushans (known as the Yuezhi) and the Chinese. In 78 CE, Ban Chao lists the Kushans along with the kingdom of Shule (Kashgar) as being kingdoms who wanted to submit to China. 114 Despite this statement, Ban Chao then attacked Shule (Kashgar) in 84 CE, leading to the intervention of the Kingdom of Kangju (Sogdiana) to help Shule. The Kushans then assisted Ban Chao leading to the retreat of Kangju and conquest of Shule. The Chinese had also been

111 112 113 114

Ng & Wang 2005: 70, 72. Pulleyblank 1968: 252–253; Crespigny 2006: 6–9; Rhie 2007: 255; Høisæter 2013: 31, 95. Crespigny 2006: 8. Yang 2013: 85.

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assisted by the Kushans in the attack on Jushi. 115 Yang suggests that this means that there was an alliance between the Han and the Kushans although the fact that Ban Chao had to give the Kushans brocades in order for them to assist the Chinese, argues that they had to pay for it. If there was an alliance, however, this fractured when the Kushans asked for a Han princess in 88 CE. Ban Chao however refused this idea and this led the Kushan king to become very angry with the Han for their refusal. He was so angry, in fact, that he attacked Ban Chao via a viceroy whose name is given as Xie with 70.000 soldiers. 116 Ban Chao, presumably having learned from the Han invasion of Dayuan, realized that if he cut off the Kushan army from their supply lines and allies, that the Kushan army could not survive long in the Tarim Basin. Therefore, Ban Chao killed Kushans emissaries who were on their way to Kuchan/Qiuci, who were allied with the Kushans and who would have supplied him with troops. Ban Chao was therefore able to defeat a large Kushan invading force because they were now cut off from their supplies. The viceroy was forced to apologize for his invasion and withdrew after Ban Chao granted forgiveness This meant that the Kushans were afraid of the Han emperor and every year sent envoys with gifts. 117 In 95 CE the Hou Hanshu recorded that Ban Chao crossed the Pamirs as far as the Hanging pass when he was trying to pacify and unite the lands to the west of Khotan. 118 It is interesting to note, however, that while the passes through the mountains to China are covered with inscriptions, only a few are in Chinese. There are possible indications that Chinese lived in the area helped pay for production of manuscripts, 119 but the reading is uncertain. 120 The only other mention of Kushan interference in the Tarim Basin comes in the early 2nd century CE. The Hou Hanshu reports that Chenpan, the maternal uncle of King Anguo of Kashgar (Shule) had been sent by his nephew into exile to the Kushan Empire when the Kushans invaded Kashgar. After Anguo died without heirs his mother became regent and wanted to have Anguo’s brother’s son Yifu to succeed him. Sensing an opportunity, however, Chenpan arrived with a Yuezhi escort of soldiers and installed himself as king and took the seal from Yifu. Chenpan submitted to the Han and sent his son as hostage to the Chinese emperor and was given Han titles. 121 Many scholars have connected this incident to a story related in the 7th century text of Xuanzang’s description of his journey to Central Asia and India (Datang xiyu ji), namely his report about a monastery in the state of Kapisa in the Hindukush. 122 Xuanzang described how Kanishka ruled a large area 115 Zürcher 1968: 370; Yu 2006: 177–178; Thierry 2005; Crespigny 2006: 5–6; Yang 2013: 85. 116 Yu 2006: 178; Thierry 2005; Crespigny 2006: 6; Yang Juping 2013: 85. 117 Hou Hanshu Ch. 47, 1965–1575–80. Yu Taishan 2006: 178; Crespigny 2006: 6; Høisæter 2013: 96–97; Yang Juping 2013: 85. 118 Pulleyblank 1968: 251. 119 Hollman 1993. 120 Hinüber 1980: 67; Ma 1989. 121 Hou Hanshu 21; Zürcher 1968: 370; Thierry 2005; Crespigny 2006. 19–20; Rhie 2007: 248, no. 3; Crespigny 2009: 94; Di Castro 2013: 8; Høisæter 2013: 97; Hill 2015: 42–43. 122 For problems interpretations about the location of Kapisa see Mehendale 1996a: 49–50; Mehendale 1996b; Mehendale 1997: 26, 29, 58, 221–222, 227, 230–233.

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extending to the east of the Pamirs, leading to individuals from Hexi (which is generally translated as “west of the river”) to send him hostages. This has generally been taken to describe Anguo sending his uncle Chenpan into exile to the Kushans. 123 Zürcher, on the other hand has suggested that Hexi actually refers to the Hexi or Gansu corridor (see above), which was located to the east of the Tarim Basin and is not describing Kashgar. 124 Even if the usual translation is correct, however, it is so vague that there is no evidence that it did refer to Kashgar. Further evidence is used from the Tibetan Prophecy of Li Country, which dates to the later 8th century. Both Xuanzang and the century later Prophecy of Li Country relate that Khotan was founded by Mauryan King Ashoka’s son. 125 Further, the source also notes that the Khotanese king led an army into India with King Kanika, who has been identified as King Kanishka. 126 None of this proves Kushan control in the region, 127 but it suggests that there was an awareness, even later periods, that there was a relationship between the two areas. Thanks to the Kushan intervention in the affairs of Kashgar, one might expect that there would be signs of control there. Kashgar is an important city in the Tarim Basin thanks to its position at the intersection of the northern and the southern caravan routes near the Pamir and Tianshan mountains. 128 The site of Kashgar has not been extensively studied, however. 129 The archaeological evidence for Kushan activity in the Tarim Basin is considerably less than that for Chinese activity and the significance of it is disputed. While some scholars have simply stated that the Tarim Basin was under Kushan King Kanishka, 130 others have discussed this in more detail. Ma and Sun state that the problems have come about from western scholars not correctly understanding the Chinese records. 131 While it is true that there have been problems in interpreting the Chinese historical records, there are also a question of how the material culture of the Tarim Basin has been interpreted. Yang claims that the presence of Buddhism, the Kharoṣṭhī language, and Sino-Kharoṣṭhī coins suggests that the Kushans played some sort of role in the region after the Han withdrew from the area, 132 but the question is what type of role they played. Due to the small number of excavations conducted in the region, however, there is limited and often poorly defined archaeological evidence. Much of the material that is said to be from the Tarim

123 Pulleyblank 1968: 254, no. 2; Zürcher 1968: 377, 383; Cribb 1985: 139–140; Mehendale 1997: 222, 226; Rhie 2007: 248; Skjærvø 2012: 108; Høisæter 2013: 105. 124 Zurcher 1968: 354–355. 125 Mair 1993: 18, 26, no. 53; Sims-Williams 2004: 134; Tremblay 2007: 100, no. 18; Skjaervo 2012: 108; Kumamoto 2009; Mair 2012: 158–159, no. 53, 177–178. 126 Emmerick 1967; Pulleyblank 1968: 254, no. 2; Høisæter 2013: 105. 127 Contra Høisæter 2013: 105. 128 Florenzano et al. 2010: 165–166. 129 Vicziany & di Castro 2015: 14. 130 Dubey 2013. 131 Ma & Sun 1996: 238, no. 29. 132 Yang 2013: 89.

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Basin and shows Kushan influence was not excavated archaeologically but purchased at the end of the 19th/20th by westerners who visited or lived in that region. The use of Kharoṣṭhī in the Tarim Basin has been interpreted as showing signs of Kushan influence in the Tarim Basin, 133 but the extent of this is disputed. The Kharoṣṭhī script, which was used to write Gāndhārī Prakrit, was widespread in Bactria as well as north India becoming the international language in the Kushan Empire. 134 In the Tarim Basin, Gāndhārī Prakrit documents written in Kharoṣṭhī have been found dating to the time of Kushan Empire at different sites in the Tarim Basin, but not in large numbers. 135 There is also a find of a Kushan period document in another as yet unidentified Prakrit. 136 In addition, there are some Sanskrit documents written in Brahmī that date to the Kushan period. 137 These documents are said to be imports, however, rather than actually being products of individuals living in the Tarim Basin. It does suggest, however, that some of the literate members of the population did know Prakrit and Sanskrit. 138 No scholars have suggested that the presence of these Kushan period manuscripts in the Tarim Basin is proof of Kushan control of the Tarim basin, in contrast to the post-Kushan Kharoṣṭhī material. While there are a few Kushan period imports written in Kharoṣṭhī and Brahmī, the majority of Kharoṣṭhī documents in the Tarim Basin date to after the Sasanians had conquered the Kushans in the later half of the 3rd century. These post-Kushan Gāndhārī Prakrit documents were found at sites along the Southern Route of the Tarim Basin which were within what was controlled by the Kingdom of Shanshan. The texts were written in sanskritized Gāndharī Prakrit. This reflects the fact that in the former Kushan Empire, Prakrit had been largely replaced by Sanskrit and the late Gāndharī Prakrit reflects the increasing influence of Sanskrit. Most of the documents are administrative documents written on wood and were found at the site of Niya, but there is also a stone inscription from Endere that points to its use in different spheres of life. 139 The use of Gāndhārī Prakrit and the similarity in royal titles between the Kushans and Niya documents has led to the argument whether the Kushans controlled the Tarim Basin or if the language and script was brought through the spread of Buddhism. 140 Others have argued that it was Indian scribes who worked in Bactria fleeing the Sasanian conquerors of the Kushans who brought the script and language to Niya. 141 It seems unlikely that 133 Francfort a& Debaine-Francfort 1993: 930, 932; Salomon 2007: 183–184. 134 Saloman 1998: 44, 46; Salomon 2007: 18; Falk 2015: 285. 135 Burrow 1937: 328; Brough 1962: 1–2; Glass 2004a: 131; Salomon 2007: 182; Sander 2012: 29–30; Falk & Strauch 2014: 55. 136 Salomon 2007: 185; Strauch 2011: 156–157; Sander 2012: 30–31. 137 Sander 2012: 27, 33–35, 87–89. See also Maue 2010: 1. 138 Saloman 2012: 35; Sander 2012: 35. 139 Lin 1990: 283; Saloman 1998: 47–48, 160; Saloman 1999; Salomon 2001: 241–242; Glass 2004a: 131; Padwa 2007: 259–260; Salomon 2007: 181; Strauch 2011: 156–157, 159, 163; Sander 2012: 29–30. 140 Brough 1965: 596–598; Pulleyblank 1965: 254; Salomon 1998: 5–6, 8, 10–11; Padwa 2007: 305– 307; Tremblay 2007: 101–102; Rhie 2007: 245; Skjaervo 2012: 110; Høisæter 2013: 5, 107. 141 Harmatta 1996: 426–427; Hansen 2015: 45, 47.

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scribes from Balkh would have fled as far as Niya, almost a thousand kilometers, when they could have fled to a neighboring region. Further, there is no reason to assume that Kharoṣṭhī was used in Niya as a result of any sort of Kushan conquest. Comparison with other scenarios shows that one does not need a conquest in order to have individuals use a particular administrative language. Coptic and Greek for instance, are used in medieval Nubia and Nubian law follows and alters the Egyptian Coptic legal forms, for example, even though the Egyptians never conquered the region in this period. 142 In addition to the linguistic evidence, there is also numismatic evidence that has been cited to prove that the Kushans had close contact with the Tarim Basin. Most of the coins found in the region were Chinese (see above), but the rulers of Khotan issued their own coins, probably some time in the 1st or 2nd centuries CE. The coins combined both Chinese and Kushan traditions, probably modelled on the reduced tetradrachm and drachm of Bactria. The Bactrian reduced Attic weight and the Han liang (ounce) were almost the same meaning that the weight of the coin could be used in either system. Some of the early issues were overstruck on Kushan coins. Despite the fact that Chinese coins were by far the most common type of coin in the region, these coins did not have a hole in them. On the obverse, the names and titles of the kings were given in Gandhārī written in Prakrit, while the reverse was in Chinese giving the metal and coin weight. 143 The fact that the Khotanese were trying to appeal to both the Chinese and Kushans tends to argue against the idea that these coins were a prestige issue that had no circulation as suggested by Ma and Sun 144 even though there is currently no evidence that they circulated outside of the Tarim Basin. 145 While round lead (or more rarely clay) objects with barbarized Greek inscriptions have been found in China to the east of the Tarim Basin in provinces such as in Gansu and also Shaanxi in tombs as grave goods, the purpose of these objects remains unclear. These seem to be based on Indo-Scythian or early Kushan coins. 146 Nevertheless, “the paucity of Kushan coins in the area and the absence of other evidence makes it likely that they did not rule directly over the region for any considerable time” 147 and the lead ingots outside the Tarim Basin are still not well understood. In addition to these coins, some Kushan coins were supposedly found in Khotan at the capital Yotkan, 148 many of which were minted in Kashmir. 149 The coins were mostly concentrated in the southwest Tarim Basin at sites such as Khotan, Kashgar, and the

142 Ruffini 2012: 144–149. 143 Stein 1907: 575–576; Cribb 1984: 128, 136, 140–143, 145, 147, 149–151, no. 50; Cribb 1985: 136–137, 141–142; Sims-Williams & Cribb 1995–1996: 103; Cribb 1999: 184–185; Wang 2004a: 27; Wang 2004b: 37; Rhie 2007: 257; Salomon 2007: 182–183; Kumamoto 2009; Høisæter 2013: 99–103 144 Ma & Sun 1996: 227. 145 Høisæter 2013: 100. 146 Cribb 1978; Alram 2001; Whaley 2009. 147 Rosenfield 1960. 148 Stein 1907: 575–576; Cribb 1985: 140–141; Wang 2004a: 142, no. 35a–c; Wang 2004b: 33–34; Rhie 2007: 258, no. 32; Anderson 2012: 14; Dubey 2013: 43–44. 149 Cribb 1984: 151; Mitchiner 2012: 93–94; Jongeward & Cribb with Donovan 2015: 68.

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Tashkurgan region, but one was found at Loulan in the east. 150 Mitchiner concluded that Kashgar was a Kushan protectorate on the basis of coin finds of a long series of Kushan rulers from the 80s CE–230s/240s CE found in Kashgar. He did not think that the Kushans ruled the site directly, however. 151 Cribb also came to similar conclusions arguing that the Chinese evidence pointed to Kushan control of Kahsgar and the presence of Kushan coins at Khotan also argued that this oasis was under Kushan control combined with the Chinese evidence. He suggests that the Kushan coins were found together with the Sino-Kharoṣṭhī coins and suggests that they circulated together. Further, he argues that low value coins are not usually circulating merely as a result of trade. 152 This is a view that is also followed by Wang, although she thinks that occupation might be the case but not necessarily. 153 Further, scholars have argued the Res Gestae Divi Saprois inscription of Shapur I stated that the Sasanians conquered the Kushans to the borders of Kashgar, 154 but the word for the place name in the inscription is in “Kash,” which is not necessarily the word for Kashgar. 155 Just as Dubey took the presence of Kushan coins in India to demarcate the limits of the Kushan Empire there (see above), he also did the same for the presence of Kushan coins in the Tarim Basin. 156 It is important to remember, however, that these coins are generally not found in archaeological excavations making statements about their distribution difficult. Various art historians have noted similarities in architecture, and artistic styles of wall paintings, statuary, textiles, and stuccos between Bactria, Gandhara, and the Tarim Basin although dating this material can be problematic 157 and this has not been interpreted as evidence for Kushan control but rather the influence of the Kushans on the Silk Road particularly with the spread of Buddhism or trade. 158 Greek style seals have been found at Khotan and other sites some of which may have been produced locally 159 but the difficulty, however, is to interpret the meaning of these types of motifs. Seals on the Kharoṣṭhī documents from Niya, for example, included a combination of seal impressions that show western style seal impressions 160 as well as Chinese types. 161 Similarities have also been noted in the pottery from the Tarim Basin with the Kushan pottery of northwest In150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157

158 159 160 161

Wang 2004b: 33–34; Mitchiner 2012: 87–88, 93–94, 116–117. Mitchiner 2012: 114–115. Cribb 1985: 140–141. Wang 2004: 34. Honigmann 1953; Sprengling 1953; Maricq 1958; Mitchiner 2012: 116–117. See Rosenfield 1967: 116. Dubey 2013: 43–44. Bergman 1935: 79–87, 92; Francfort & Debaine-Francfort 1993: 943; Debaine-Francfort et al. 1994: 44, 48, 50, no. 26, 51, no. 59; Mehendale 1997: 194–195; Desrosiers et al. 2001: 49, 51, 53; Ghose 2004: 141; Padwa 2004b: 175, cat.no. 73; Rhie 2007: 213–214, 249–253, 257, 267, 277–278, 285–286, 314–315, 319, 361; Di Castro 2008: 274; Hansen 2015: 35, 38. Debaine-Francfort et al. 1994: 49. Callieri 1998: 261; Whitfield with Sims-Williams 2004: Figs. 47–48. Xiong & Johnston Laing 1991: 165; Hansen 2004: 287; Rhie 2007: 150, 363; Elikhina 2008: 29; Hansen 2015: 46. Rhie 2007: 363; Hansen 2015: 46.

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dia and Pakistan, as well as Bactria and Ferghana. 162 Despite these statements, however, parallels are not always published and the dating is problematic and some of it may be post-Kushan. 163 The same is true with the terracottas from the western Tarim Basin sites such as Khotan that have connections with both Bactria and northern India but again cannot necessarily be dated securely to the Kushan period because they lack stratigraphic dating. The only dated parallel is from Panjikent and dates to the 8th century 164 and the Indian examples may also have been dated too early and might not be Kushan at all. 165 Hitch has discussed the possible Kushan control of the Tarim Basin in the most detail compared to other scholars. According to him, the Chinese sources did not mention the Kushans in the Tarim Basin because their interest was on their control of the Tarim Basin. 166 Hitch has been one of the foremost advocates of Kushan control of the Tarim Basim. The evidence for this is the comes from Xuanzang who stated that Kanishka led an army east of the Pamirs and China recognized his overlordship. 167 Hitch suggests that Eastern Han control was limited and only happened during limited periods of time. Hitch argued that a revolt in 105 against the Chinese was organized by the Kushans. 168 While there is no evidence in the Chinese histories for Kushan control of the Tarim Basin, the Kushans were clearly interested in the region as their assistance to Ban Chao and later invasion indicates. The fact that the Chinese were afraid that Kucha would assist the Kushans would indicate that the Kushans had political influence in the Tarim Basin. 169 He thought that the Kushans controlled northwest Tarim Basin and the southern route and simply because they were not mentioned until 165 does not mean they were not there. 170 He argued that the best evidence for their control was the Kharoṣṭhī documents there. 171 After initially arguing that the Kushans had ruled from 90–125 CE, in 2009 he argued that it was probably considerably longer than he had originally thought since Kanishka dated later than he had originally anticipated. According to him, Kushan rule brought the Kharoṣṭhī script, trade, and Buddhism to the region, similarities in Bactrian and Tarim Basin contracts, and the presence of Bactrian terms in languages spoken in the Tarim basin proves this, 172 even though the number of words is not numerous and the legal features of the documents are common in documents throughout the ancient world. Nevertheless, on this basis he argues that the Kushans expanded their empire throughout the 162 Stein 1907: 216–217; Francfort & Debaine-Francfort 1993: 936; Debaine-Francfort et al. 1994: 41; Desrosiers et al. 2001: 49; Di Castro 2013: 10; Ghose 2004: 141; Vicziany & di Castro 2015: 14. 163 Vicziany & di Castro 2015: 14. 164 Stein 1907: 211–222; Montell 1935: 178–192; Litvinskii 1995: 1223; Ghose 2004: 141; Elikhina 2008: 29; Stančo 2015: 219, 221–224. 165 Kala 1980: 6. 166 Hitch 1988: 180. 167 Hitch 1988: 170. 168 Hitch 1988: 179–181. 169 Hitch 1988: 181–183. 170 Hitch 1988: 184. 171 Hitch 1988: 188. 172 Hitch 2009: 12–14, no. 54, 15, 17–19, 36, 48.

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Tarim Basin except possibly in the Turfan area. 173 The problem with Hitch’s suggestion is that there is no evidence for any of the statements that he makes about Kushan rule. Conclusions The evidence for Kushan control of the Tarim Basin is limited to the Chinese histories that note that the Kushans intervened in the Tarim Basin twice: once in the 1st century CE when they unsuccessfully invaded the Tarim Basin, and then in the 2nd century CE when they helped install Chenpan on the throne of Kashgar. It is not a coincidence that these regions are located closest to the Kushan Empire. The Kushan intervention in the region seems to be in the same vein as the Chinese intervention in Dayuan and Xian of the Tarim Basin’s control of Dayuan, as well as the Han Dynasty intervention in Jibin. All of these forays are portrayed as being short-lived and these regions are impossible for the Chinese, Kushans, and local elites in the Tarim Basin to control from the other side of the mountains. The archaeological evidence for Kushan control is far less than the Chinese evidence for direct control of the Tarim Basin. The presence of the Kharoṣṭhī language and Kushan artistic influence can be explained by intensive contacts between the regions, which spread through both commerce and Buddhist missionaries. The later period evidence is also not particularly convincing for Kushan control of the region. The main evidence for Kushan influence in the material culture comes from the Sino-Kharoṣṭhī and Kushan coins, because other objects, such as the terracottas and the pottery, might date to different periods or could have come to the region through commercial contacts. Kushan coins seem to have circulated in the region in a limited way, far more limited than Han dynasty coins. The Sino-Kharoṣṭhī coins reflect the fact that the southwest of the Tarim Basin had close commercial connections with both regions. Bibliography Alconini, S. 2008. “Dis-embedded Centers and Architecture of Power in the Fringes of the Inka Empire: New Perspectives on Territorial and Hegemonic Strategies of Domination” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 27: 63–81. Alram, M. 2001. “Lead Ingots with Barbarous Greek Inscription” In Monks and Merchants: Silk Road Treasures from Northwest China Gansu and Ningxia 4th–7th century, edited by Juliano, A.L. and Lerner, J., 79. New York. Anderson, W. 2012. “The Languages and Writing Systems of the Tarim Basin” In The “Silk Roads” in Time and Space: Migrations, Motifs, and Materials, edited by Mair, V., 5–19, Philadelphia. Barfield, T. 1981. “The Hsiung-nu Imperial Confederacy: Organization and Foreign Policy” The Journal of Asian Studies 41: 45–61. —. 1989. The Perilous Frontier: Nomadic Empires and China. Oxford. 173 Hitch 2009: 48.

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Zhu J., Nie Y., Gao H., Liu F. and Yu L. 2017. “GIS-Based Visibility Network and Defensive System of Han Dynasty in Central Xinjiang, China” International Journal of Geo-Information 6: 247–252. Zürcher, E. 1968. “The Yüeh-chih and Kaniṣka in the Chinese Sources” In Papers on the Date of Kanishka, edited by Basham, A.L., 346–390. Leiden. —. 2012. “Buddhism Across Boundaries: The Foreign Input” In Buddhism Across Boundaries: The Interplay of Indian, Chinese, and Central Asian Source Materials (Sino-Platonic Papers 222), edited by McRae, J.R. and Nattier, J., 1–25. Philadelphia.

© 2020, Otto Harrassowitz GmbH & Co. KG, Wiesbaden ISBN Print: 978-3-447-11453-0 - ISBN E-Book: 978-3-447-39027-9

When Did the Kushano-Sasanian Coinage Commence?* Nikolaus Schindel

Introduction The introduction of Sasanian rule in large parts of the former Kushan Empire was of great importance for the history of Central Asia and Northern India. For one thing, the disappearance of the large, unified Kushan state opened the gate for the emergence of smaller, more regional political entities. At the same time, in several lasting aspects— coinage being not the least important of them—did the Western Iranians influence the region. As is well-known, the absolute chronology of the Kushan dynasty has been hotly disputed, and even if nowadays the communis opinio favors 127 CE as Year One of Kanishka I, this is far from certain, to put it politely. 1 Sasanian history is considerably better understood, and generally rests on a much more reliable chronological basis than that of the Kushan Empire and related states such as e.g. the preceding Indo-Parthians. 2 Despite this, I have the impression that the discussion the absolute date of the beginning of the Kushano-Sasanian dominion lacks methodological clarity and a really comprehensive discussion of the various sources. More often than not, the evidence is not analyzed in its own right, but rather squeezed into a pre-existing reconstruction, without much concern for the details, especially if they contradict one’s own ideas. While it is beyond the scope of the contribution to discuss each and every aspect of Kushano-Sasanian history, I try to provide here an overview not only on coins, which are my main area of interest and of competence, but also on other sources.

* The present article was finalized in 2017. 1 Especially Falk has advocated this (Falk 2001; Falk 2004; Falk 2012); he does not seem to have so far taken serious arguments against this hypothesis. While a detailed discussion is beyond the scope of this paper, its results certainly have a direct (and, as I believe, markedly negative) impact on the 127 CE hypothesis. 2 A very good discussion of the connections between Early Kushans and Indo-Parthians (unfortunately, without photos of the coins discussed) can be found in Alram 1999.

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Nikolaus Schindel

Literary, Epigraphical, and Archaeological Sources In this section, the non-numismatic sources, which in earlier research have been connected with the Kushano-Sasanian dominion, will be critically evaluated. I tried as best as I could to avoid being influenced by my own concepts about Kushano-Sasanian chronology, and approach these sources as open-minded as possible. At the same time, I attempted to apply the rules of source criticism which I have learned as a student of Ancient History as severely as necessary, since I believe that in this respect, there is a certain potential for improvement in Kushan studies. Tabari In Bosworth’s translation of Tabari’s history, the text says: “Envoys from the kings of the Kūshān, of Tūrān, and of Makrān came to him offering their submission”. 3 This has been often seen as a direct reference to a Sasanian conquest of the Kushan Empire. 4 But this statement is not as clear as those who reconstruct from it a conquest of the Kushan Empire by Ardashir might wish. As already Göbl has pointed out, 5 it was not Ardashir who actively did something; it was the envoys of the Kushan king, as well as of two fairly modest local rulers who came to his court. The fact that Tabari mentions the Kushan king in the same context as the shadowy rulers of Turan 6 and Makuran 7 strongly implies that he (or rather his source) had no real idea of the importance of the Kushan Empire. It may be open to discussion whether one considers this state to have been a superpower on equal footing with Sasanian Iran. 8 The fact that the Kushano-Sasanian ruler is labelled LBA, wuzurg, “great”, 9 a predicate he shares only with the Arminshah, 10 proves that his position was an exalted one within the fabric of the Sasanian Empire. Admittedly, in the 3 Tabari/Bosworth, p. 15; in Tabari/Nöldeke, the German text says: “Da kamen zu ihm Gesandte des Königs der Kûšân, des Königs von Tûrân und des von Mokrân mit der Erklärung ihrer Unterwürfigkeit”; the translation provided by M. Köhbach for Göbl 1993: 54: “Es kamen zu ihm die Gesandten des Königs der Kušān, des Königs von Turān und des Königs von Mukrān in (bzw. mit) Gehorsam (bzw. Folgsamkeit, Unterwürfigkeit…)”. 4 An incomplete listing of the authors advocating a Sasanian conquest of Kushanshahr on the basis of Tabari contains Bataille 1928: 27–28; Brunner 1974: 146; Cribb 1981: 100–101; Carter 1985: 216–217. Errington & Curtis 2007: 82; more cautious are Wiesehöfer 1986 and De la Vaissière 2016. The most important discussion (which tends to be overlooked, or maybe rather ignored) can be found in Göbl 1993: 53–55. 5 Göbl 1984: 57, note 93. 6 Turan was under the rule of Narseh when he was Sakanshah, as evidenced by the Kaaba-i Zardusht inscription, Huyse 1999: 47, as well as of Shapur Sakanshah in an inscription from Persepolis, Back 1978: 492; for general information cp. Bosworth 2011. 7 It is mentioned in the Kaaba-i Zardusht inscription as being ruled by Shapur I, Huyse 1999: 24. 8 Göbl 1984: 91. 9 MacKenzi 1971: 93: “wuzurg [LBA